Pierce the Darkness
by HardlyFatal
Summary: BtVSxLotRxB5. A shining beacon in space, all alone in the night. Home, now, to two beings from the past, ripped from the moment of their deaths to be the unwilling basis of a plan to create the ultimate killing machine.
1. Chapter 1

**Pierce the Darkness  
****Chapter 1**

_The Babylon Project was our last, best hope for peace. A self-contained world, five miles long, located in neutral territory; a place of commerce and diplomacy for a quarter-million humans and aliens. _

_A shining beacon in space, all alone in the night. _

_It was the dawn of the third age of Mankind, the year the Great War came upon us all. This is the story of the last of the Babylon stations. The year is 2259. The name of the place is Babylon 5. _

__

The Drazi transport arrived in the wee hours of the morning, when anyone unlucky enough to be on duty was tired, bored, and apathetic. This was, of course, by design; it was hoped that their cargo would undergo only the most cursory of inspection before being waved on by weary attendants more interested in the upcoming end of their shift than the possibility of any illicit trafficking.

And if the Drazi themselves seemed a little high-strung, well, that was how Drazi were, as a rule. The dock workers, all human, exchanged smirks at the aliens' expense and continued with their work; only four hours to go before they could return to their quarters for some well-deserved shuteye.

Now, if those dock workers had bothered to run a bio scan on the Drazis' cargo—as they really ought to have done—they would have seen that the two not-very-coincidentally coffin-shaped boxes contained humanoid life forms. In the face of this discovery, they probably would have contacted security immediately.

Lieutenant Zack Allan was on duty that night; a conscientious officer, he would have rushed down to docking bay 43 in person, would have impounded the highly illegal living cargo being surreptitiously brought onto Babylon 5, would have sent at least one of them right to MedLab and then woken his superiors to inform them that the Drazi were up to something nefarious yet again.

But history is filled with such for-want-of-a-nail moments, and this was just another of them.

No bio scan was performed; security was not alerted. Lt. Allan was allowed to continue dozing with his feet up on Michael Garibaldi's desk. And the two people who had just been snuck onto the immense space station began another chapter in their already... _unusual_... lives.

It was only three weeks later, when one of the MedLab nurses was performing the monthly inventory, that the theft was discovered. Doctor Stephen Franklin had an entire closet devoted to various alien gizmos and contraptions; he used them all regularly, not only on the races for which they'd been created but in his tireless xenobiological research. It was possible, he reasoned, that something that worked for one could have its applications on another.

It was with great appreciation of irony that he noted one contraption designed to lower cholesterol in Centauri was instrumental for reducing the likelihood of stroke and blood clots in Narn. Similarly, one device humans employed to reduce motion sickness through manipulation of pressure points was quite effective in eliminating migraine in their one-time enemies, the Minbari.

On and on it went, the inventory list, with everything present and accounted for with a sole exception: the Lifegiver, a mysterious contraption used to heal people by transferring the life-force of another to them. Dr. Franklin had confiscated and locked it away, not allowing any of his staff to touch or even look at it unless taking inventory of it.

Thus it was that the Lifegiver's absence came to be known. It wasn't the best morning for it; the Narn and Centauri were at it again, and earlier that evening gangs of each had gotten into a brawl. Claudette Torrey, a nurse of eight years' experience, had taken advantage of a brief moment of calm between surgeries extracting beer bottle glass from Narn and Centauri scalps to dash through the inventory of the gizmo closet. The weirdest of the gizmos was missing. Dr. Franklin, when informed, looked even more constipated than usual and sighed as he poked at his hand-link to signal Chief Garibaldi.

Garibaldi had been concerned, of course, but with all the fights breaking out and the fear of rioting that could ensue, there wasn't much he could do besides keep an eye out for big table-sized machines with blinking lights that happened to suck the life out of one person to give it to another. In a station the size of Babylon 5, well, let's just say that stumbling across it in the course of a day's business wasn't likely to have the sort of odds Ambassador Mollari would have liked to bet on, not even if he were cheating. Which he would most assiduously protest doing in the first place, of course...

But we digress.

The device's absence was discovered, reported, and forgotten. Every once in a while, Dr. Franklin or Chief Garibaldi spared the odd thought for it, wondering how and for what reason it had been spirited out of MedLab. But time marched on, as time is wont to do.

And thus when the elf who had been smuggled aboard, whose life had been siphoned to keep alive another whose fate was bound to his more closely than he could imagine, awoke in a dingy room in Brown Sector and wondered what by the Valar was going on, there was no one to know or care.

* * *

Legolas' first thought, upon waking, was that Gimli would surely appreciate the irony of an elf feeling as if he had a troupe of dwarves in his head, all hammering gleefully as if there were a vein of mithril to be unearthed.

Hand to his pounding brow, Legolas tried to remember what had happened. Elessar had died, then Arwen; he had built his little ship to cross to Valinor, and convinced Gimli to come with him. Surely, he had believed, for a creature as stalwart and brave as the son of Glóin there would be some little patch of Valinor?

But the gods had not appreciated his presumption; not even for two heroes of the Fellowship would their rule be broken. The seas became rougher the further West they had pressed, and Gimli had wanted to turn back, but Legolas would not be dissuaded.

_We capsized, _he remembered with a jolt, and despair filled him as swiftly as the cold liquid salt of the ocean that had pulled at them with greedy hands. He recalled, dimly, the last pale flash of Gimli's face before the sea tore him away, and then came a wave of his own, a wave that accomplished what centuries of orcs and goblins had not been able.

_We died,_ he thought, incredulous. He had breathed far too much water into his lungs to have survived, and there was no chance that poor Gimli had managed to keep himself afloat—dwarves had a notorious lack of buoyancy, and he was no great swimmer.

_We survived,_ he marveled, for there was no other explanation he could think of. He could feel the entirely of his body, and it was a mass of aches and stiffness. Moving an arm, then a leg, he was startled to feel their weakness, and wondered if he would be able to stand.

Opening his eyes, he felt a moment of panic when there was nothing but an empty black void overhead. _Blind!_ he thought, heart leaping to his throat, but then his elven eyes adjusted and he saw that it was merely a very dark room.

The ceiling above him seemed to consist of a multitude of metal pipes and conduits meandering in impossible tangles, serpentine and mysterious—where did they lead? Legolas decided that his resources were better spent figuring out how to work his feeble-feeling limbs rather than the destination of pipes, and slowly, painfully, dragged himself to a seated position.

At his motion, there was a veritable explosion of light, and Legolas shied away from it, hands clapped hastily over his sensitive eyes against the glare. Cautiously, he looked around for a light source but there did not appear to be one—no candles, no oil-lamps, no flames or fire at all. The light was cold and mercilessly bright, turning his golden skin sallow, and it was then that he realized (upon sight of quite a lot of that skin) that he was completely naked.

No wonder he'd thought there was a draught.

Legolas swung his legs over the edge of where he'd lain, and saw that it was no bed—just a narrow, lightly padded platform. The walls around him were just as the ceiling appeared—dull grey, another labyrinth of pipeworks, all seeming to be fashioned of metal. Extraordinary, to have enough of it to create an entire room...

He stood, knuckles whitening as he clenched the edge of the platform in his determination not to fall. He would not allow the dwarf to catch him flopping about like a landed trout. At last satisfied he was stable, Legolas gazed around him, searching for his companion, but Gimli was nowhere to be seen.

Turning in a complete circle, he saw instead another platform with another nude figure, quite obviously a woman from the shape of her. Legolas took a step toward her, only to be halted by a flash of pain in his foot. Peering down, he saw a tiny clear tube attached to the top of his arch, between the tendons, and seeming to disappear into his flesh.

Alarmed, he grasped the tube and yanked. Another flare of pain, and it came free, spilling a little blood in the process. Legolas studied the end of the tube, and his lips compressed unhappily when he saw a drop of clear green liquid trickle out. The woman's foot, he now saw, also bore one of these tubes.

_Drugged,_ he thought as suspicion reared within him. _We are being drugged._ Unease filled him, and he felt his muscles tense in preparation of... what, exactly? The room was empty but for the unconscious woman. _Someone could come in, though... _

He made his way to her side. Petite, with long golden-brown hair, she was pretty but not beautiful. Pale, no doubt from being in this strange room, and with well-formed limbs. Legolas noted that she had far more hair at the juncture of her legs than females of his kind. He hadn't expected a difference such as that. It would seem that elves and men were more diverse than he had thought...

She had many scars. Odd, round little ones on her throat, four long ones clearly from a lucky rake of claws across her right thigh, and various other gashes and slices. The scars intrigued him; it was not his experience that women would be found in the circumstances where one acquire such a network of marks.

She was also quite pregnant. He did not know how far along she was, as his people carried their young for a twelvemonth but he had heard woman bore their children a little less. Arwen had carried her son and daughters for over ten months each, a sort of compromise between her blood and their human father's. Judging by the size of this woman's belly, Legolas judged her to be yet several months from delivering.

She was frowning. He wondered what she could be thinking, unconscious as she was, to put such a fearsome scowl on her face. Perhaps she was in pain, because of the drugs given them. Legolas was by now sure the green liquid was a drug, because even in the brief span since he had removed the tube he felt better, more alert and steadier on his feet.

He did not want to cause her discomfort, but surely having a sedating substance in her system could not be healthy, either for her or the child? He bent to her foot, scrutinizing where the tube entered her flesh, and felt with a cautious fingertip how deeply it burrowed in. _Best to pull it out quickly,_ he decided, and jerked it free with a flick of his wrist.

Her body spasmed once, and she gasped, the sound harsh and grating in the still air of the room. She lay still after that, however, and Legolas estimated it was nearly a half-hour before she began to stir and awaken.

The woman drew her elbows back, trying to push herself to sit up, but the mound of her belly and weakness of her muscles had her collapsing back before she was halfway up. She made a sound of annoyance, and then one of shock and dismay when she brought her hands up to explore why she was no longer so flexible.

She struggled to sit up, becoming more and more agitated until Legolas came forward. "I will help you," he said, first in Sindarin, then in Common, with his hands up to show her he meant no harm. She did not seem to understand the words, but accepted his gesture and nodded shortly even as her gaze traveled over his bare form.

Then she began muttering in a language he had never heard before, sounding derisive and rather foul-tempered. He slid an arm behind her narrow shoulders, helping her to sit, then quickly stepped back. She had by this point realized her own nudity, and tried to pull her hair over her shoulders to cover her breasts. Odd, Legolas thought, how the children of Man were always uncomfortable to be bare before others. He himself stood before her without any attempt to shield himself.

Then she began shouting. Legolas was sorry he did not understand her language, or perhaps he was relieved—she sounded very displeased indeed, and he wondered which of their circumstances in particular had her so angry. Was it being drugged? Naked? Captive?

Likely all of the above. He was none too pleased about their status either, and he was now positive there was a draught coming from somewhere, though there was no window in the dreary metal room, nor even a vent that he could see.

Her face was becoming red from her exertion, and he touched her arm, gesturing that she should calm herself before she harmed her child. She quieted, placing tentative hands on her belly as if afraid of it. She stared down for a long moment, and when she looked up at him again, her eyes were flooded with tears.

She spoke. Whispered, really, in a tone so anguished and mystified that Legolas had little doubt what she was saying though the words were unknown to him. It became clear to him, then, that she was as baffled as to what had befallen them as he was, and filled with concern for her unborn baby.

"We have to escape," Legolas told her, aware of how stupid and impossible it sounded. Weak, unclothed, unarmed, half of them well-swollen with child, their chances to succeed at anything more than laying back down on their platforms were slim to none. He couldn't even find a door to this strange room; there was no variation between one segment of wall and another. Sighing, he returned to his platform and leant against it, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at her to indicate he was open to suggestions.

She, too, scanned the walls with a sharp gaze, muttering all the while. Then she seemed to think of something, for she looked as if she'd made a significant discovery and began shouting again. He went to admonish her to be calm again, when a strange whooshing noise came from the far side of the room, and a panel of the wall pivoted at one corner to slide away, leaving an opening.

Legolas spun to face it, automatically placing himself in front of her, and aware of her struggling to her feet behind him. He took adverse pride in that; she might be frail as a kitten in her state but she was not willing to fall without a fight. "Good girl," he murmured approvingly over his shoulder to her. She snorted, and he wondered if perhaps she could understand him after all.

Several creatures stepped into the room. They had the height and shape of a human, being shorter than the Eldar, but were utterly hairless, with scaly greyish skin and lipless slashes for mouths. Their eyes were a dull yellow, and when they pointed their hands in Legolas' direction, he saw they had thick claws in place of fingernails.

Were they a new type of orc? Or perhaps demons? He had never seen the like in all his many years, in all his extensive travels the length and breadth of Arda. He saw they were holding things in those extended hands, and realized they were weapons only when a blast of blue light exploded from the items. Cursing himself for his naiveté, he pulled the woman with him in dodging the blast and stared in amazement when it hit the platform she had lain on, shattering it into many pieces.

Then the other creatures were aiming those bursts of light at him, and Legolas found himself hard-pressed to keep moving quickly enough to miss them all. Not once, he saw, did they ever even aim at the woman, let alone try to hit her...

She noted that at the same time, it would seem, for soon enough she was moving with surprising speed and grace for a woman of her increased bulk to place herself between Legolas and the creatures. Immediately they lowered their weapons, talking amongst themselves in tones of dismay.

The woman began shouting _again_, and the creatures glanced at each other. Legolas realized they could understand her, but his relief faded when they spoke to her and there was no comprehension on her face. But one of the creatures stepped forward, nodding in response to her diatribe, then bowing several times and backing from the room, ushering his companions along with him.

Once the door slid down into place once more, she turned back to Legolas and wrapped her arms over her chest, seeming to find both warmth and comfort in the gesture as she stepped over to the remainder of her platform. She glanced up at him and made a comment, grinning briefly, and he wondered what joke she had just made even as he marveled at her ability to do so in such dire circumstances.

He understood the need for levity, however, and smiled encouragingly at her. Her jaw dropped in surprise, and he could not even begin to speculate what troubled her now. She seemed to flit back and forth between rage and sadness, amusement and stupefaction, so quickly that he had trouble keeping up with her. Humans had ever had odd ways of coping with stress, however, so he decided it was likely just a racial trait.

The whooshing sound came again, indicating the return of the creatures, and this time they rushed in, trying to surprise Legolas as they sent the blasts of blue light at him. The woman grabbed his arm and yanked him behind her, yelling at the creatures for all she was worth. Again, they lowered their weapons and even hung their heads in defeat.

Yet another entered the room carrying a stack of fabric, and it dawned upon Legolas that the woman had demanded clothing. For some reason, not only were the creatures unwilling to harm her, but they were deferring to her as well. He wondered if she could demand a meal for them, and watched as she pointed at the floor, indicating the creatures should leave the clothes there.

Then she shooed them from the room, flapping her hands and sounding like she were scolding them severely, so similar to Arwen when her brood was young that Legolas felt a pang of nostalgia. Once the door was closed, she tried to bend to pick up the clothes but the weight suspended off her front began to tip her over, and only Legolas' quickness saved her from falling flat on her face.

Blushing a little, she said something he supposed were thanks, then retreated to a corner to pull the garb on. Legolas did the same, pleased to see that though the colours were drab, the garments were clean and in good condition, and even fit reasonably well—brown trousers, a bit baggy in the rear, and a beige tunic. There was even a brown belt and black socks, though no shoes.

The woman fared as well—her gown was a dull green, but voluminous and fitting easily over her bulky midsection. She grimaced, hands flat over the rounded expanse, and began to yell some more. She was quite loud for such a little thing, and he was across the room, taking her hands in his and trying to quiet her, before he quite knew what he was doing.

Her face was strained, angry and exasperated, when she turned it up to him, and he saw her eyes were a stormy hazel. "Be calm," he said soothingly, trying to use his most melodic tones to pacify her. "You will make yourself sick if you do not settle yourself."

The door whooshed open a third time, and once again she placed herself between Legolas and the creatures. This time, two came forward bearing trays with plates of food. After they were set on the ground, a third came forward, a small round silver disc on each upturned palm. In the centre of each disc was a short needle-like protrusion.

The creature, speaking all the while, handed one disc to his ally, then turned him around and pointed to the back of his neck. There, at the fleshy part at the base of his skull, sat a silver disc. The creature gestured to his mouth, then his ear, and finally to the disc.

A look of dawning comprehension crossed the woman's face. Legolas felt distinctly unhappy; he had no inkling what was happening, but was alarmed to see the woman reach out and take the offered disc.

"No," he said flatly, and took it from her. "You should not be altered by these things."

She snatched it back, glaring at him, and before he could do anything else, reached up under the fall of her hair and seemed to push the needle-side into her neck. She flinched, but soon straightened up and began speaking.

It became immediately clear to Legolas that the disc was some sort of talisman, for the woman was now conversing freely with the creatures. She took the second disc and came at him, her face carefully bland and innocent, and tried to explain its purpose to him further. It was a wasted effort; he understood completely what it was for, now, but trusted it no more than before.

Sighing, she widened her eyes and looked up at him with such an expression of pleading that he felt his resolution wavering. "No," he said determinedly. "I will not permit you to use that on me."

Her shoulders slumped, and he realized that she could understand him even if she was incomprehensible to him. "I am Legolas," he told her.

"Buffy," she replied, pointing to herself. "Drazi," she said, indicating the creatures, who were leaving the room once more.

"Have you learnt why we are here?" Legolas asked her. She shook her head in the negative, and now it was his shoulders that slumped. "The food is likely drugged," he said when she began to pick through the contents of the trays. "But perhaps you should eat it anyway."

She frowned at him, so he hastened to explain. "You need to keep your strength up, for your child." Her expression darkened at the mention of the baby, though he did not know why. "They do not want to hurt you, for whatever reason. I doubt it would make you ill, just sleepy."

Legolas pushed the tray a few inches closer to her. "Go on," he urged gently. "If you sleep, I will watch over you. No harm will come to you while I am able to prevent it."

Buffy stared at him a long moment, her gaze seeming to search for something she apparently found, because she nodded shortly and began to eat. It must have tasted awful because she grimaced several times whilst eating the green substance and refused to finish the brown substance after a single bite.

And sure enough, it was not long after her last mouthful that she yawned widely. Legolas helped her to lay upon the remaining platform as she was now encumbered not only by her belly but her baggy gown, as well. She fell asleep quickly, and was unconscious for several hours.

The creatures—Drazi, Buffy had called them—came once she was asleep but Legolas placed himself between them and her. He had taken the spoons that came with their meals and broken off the rounded ends, then rubbed them against each other until they had sharp points at one end—hardly his ancient, perfectly weighted, bone-handled daggers but better than nothing.

The Drazi took one look at him and left. He did not flatter himself that it was because he presented such a threat; they probably did not want to be on the receiving end of another of Buffy's shouting fits. He could not say he would blame them, in that instance.

When she awoke, she insisted that he eat, too. He tried to use the lack of utensils as a reason for why he could not, but she would not accept that. Legolas did not like the idea of sleeping, thus leaving her unprotected, but she kept at him until he was ready to do almost anything to make her cease. Besides, he rationalized, scooping up the green substance and prudently avoiding the brown as Buffy had, the Drazi treated her as precious. He did not believe they would harm her.

All too soon, he was feeling drowsy and lay on the platform for his own nap. She gave him a reassuring smile and, oddly, smoothed his hair back from his face. Probably feeling maternal, in this advanced state of pregnancy, Legolas thought muzzily as his mind fogged over. He felt safe for the first time since awakening in this strange place, and slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pierce the Darkness  
****Chapter 2**

Buffy watched him sleep, and wondered what the hell he was. With his jaw-dropping good looks and general glowiness, there was no way he was human. Didn't feel demonic to her, but then everything was all screwy at the moment, so who was she to judge? He seemed a gentleman-type guy, always helping her up and down and putting himself between her and danger, which was cute. It was so long since a man had been courtly to her that her first reaction had been suspicion until she'd realized he really was on her side (or else a fabulous actor). It was probable that her pleasure in being helped like a weakling was going to wear off, and soon, but for now he could hold all the doors and pull out all the chairs he liked.

So, time to evaluate the sitch. She'd died. Again. "Third time's a charm," she muttered, and heaved herself up to sit on the platform beside Legolas. Yet another apocalypse, and this time she hadn't made it out. Tilting her head to the side, Buffy examined how she felt about that and concluded that, since she was obviously in more trouble, she didn't feel all that bad about it. Missing the Scoobies and her sister, of course, but apart from that— Buffy died, and woke up nude and hugely pregnant and surrounded by aliens? Must be Tuesday.

Crap, she was tired. Sore, too, no thanks to the hitchhiker she'd somehow acquired between dying and waking up, and what was up with that? Probably had something to do with yet another elaborate plan for world domination—some half-cocked scheme to breed her Slayerly genes with some uber-strong race to create the ultimate weapon.

Buffy looked askance at Legolas; the Drazi hadn't used _his_ baby-bullet to put her in the family way, had they? He was tall, sure, but kind of skinny—looked like a strong wind would blow him over. All that would come of that would be a skinny, glowy, half-Slayer kid with really good hair... and Buffy realized that she was likely brewing the next supermodel deluxe inside her. Maybe, she thought viciously, it would get her shortness. Hah.

The baby kicked, and Buffy glowered down at it. "Screw you," she muttered. "Would serve you right, to be short. Not like I invited you in there." She poked her tautly rounded belly with an experimental finger and winced at the slight pain. "I feel like Poland. I've been annexed against my will."

Thinking wistfully of Lech Walesa, she glanced over at Legolas. She hoped it wouldn't take long for him to shift around in his sleep so she could hurry up and jab the translator device into his damned neck. Should she feel a scruple or two about forcing it on him while he was unconscious? Buffy tried to scrape up a bit of remorse for the deviousness of it and found she couldn't. She'd already been violated, and in a fairly big way. He could suffer a little, too.

Her thoughts wandered, as thoughts are wont to do, and she contemplated their captors. The Drazi, they'd called themselves. They seemed weirdly deferential to her, not that she was complaining. When one had come in to remove the empty plates—and what in the hell was that spooge they'd been given to eat? Even Giles could cook better than that— she'd demanded to speak to their leader. His—her? its?—response had been only to nod and bow as he'd backed from the room.

It felt more than a little freaksome to tell an alien to take her to their leader, but Buffy did not have the luxury to avoid the freaksome at the moment. She had to be careful, and calm, and figure out what was going on. She'd learn what the Drazi were up to if she had to kill every one of them.

_Oh, good,_ she thought as Legolas stirred, moving onto his side. Hopping down from the platform, distinctly less gazelle-like than she would have preferred, she palmed the device and strolled to where his dark head rested on the meagre padding. She took his long, straight, silky, cool, heavy hair—ok, so she had a fixation—in her hand and lifted it off his neck. Positioning the needle of the device, she took a breath and slapped it in, then released his hair and stepped back.

As she'd expected, he jerked away from her, sitting upright with one hand flying to his neck as his legs swung down, all in one movement. His gaze, when he turned it to her, was both betrayed and reproachful.

"Don't bother trying to get it out," Buffy said when he tugged on it, wincing. "They don't come out as easy as they go in."

"You knew I did not wish to wear this talisman," he said, voice low and angry. "Now it is sealed to me."

Talisman? Hoo boy. This guy was in for a rude technological awakening. "It's more important that we be able to communicate with each other," she informed him flatly. "We can't keep using sign language, and there's no time to deal with your learning curve."

Legolas stared at her a long moment. "This thing is not working," he said at last. "I did not understand most of what you just said."

Buffy pinched the bridge of her nose in, had she realized it, a classic Gilesian pose. _Great_, she thought. _I get stuck with the slang-impaired medieval guy._ Aloud, she told him, "We can't keep using hand gestures and there's not enough time for you to learn to speak whatever language the Drazi are using." He said nothing; this seemed to be his way of admitting she was right without actually saying the words. Typical. "We should discuss what we know of our situation," Buffy continued.

He nodded slowly. "I was sailing to Aman with my friend, Gimli. The Valar were displeased and capsized our boat; I thought surely we were about to die. I lost consciousness, and when I awoke it was here, with you. We both had tubes in our feet, which I removed. You woke shortly after that, and are aware of the rest."

Now it was Buffy's turn to nod. She'd ask him what Aman and the Valar were another time. For now, they had to concentrate. "I was fighting a group of demons," she reminisced, "and they got away from me, somehow..." Her voice and gaze drifted away as she pondered how that had happened. "There were too many of them, even for me."

"Demons?" Legolas demanded. "You battle demons?" He studied her, obviously incredulous, and Buffy crossed her arms as best she might over her expanded girth and waited.

"I'm stronger than I look," she told him sourly. "There's a lot more to me than meets the eye."

He acquired a speculative gleam in his eye, and to her surprise, smiled at her. "Well am I familiar with those who are more than they seem," he said. "To be truthful, I am glad to have any secret advantage I can against this new foe."

Buffy grinned back. "Don't get too happy about it, bub. It's a not-so-secret advantage, unfortunately—the Drazi are perfectly aware of what I can do. It's probably why I'm here in the first place." She tilted her head to one side consideringly. "What I can't figure is why you're here. Unless you're more than you look, too."

Legolas was taken aback. "I am what you see," he said. "Naught but a wood-elf, originally of Mirkwood and late of Ithilien."

She blinked. "An elf? Is that why you're all glowy and... and hey, what about the ears?"

Sighing, he swept back the shining curtain of his hair and turned a little away from her to reveal a delicately pointed ear. "Glowy?" he asked as she skimmed her fingertips over it. "It is merely the light of Ilúvatar, shining from me as one of the Eldar."

"Oh, is that all?" Buffy murmured, stepping back. "And here was me thinking you were radioactive." He was baffled again, but there was no time to explain—the door pivoted open and in strode some Drazi. One in particular, a little taller and with a definite air of command, stepped forward.

"I am Vizak," he said importantly. "I am representative from Drazi Freehold to League of Non-Aligned Worlds."

"Oh, I have so many questions for you..." Buffy said, smiling even as she cracked her knuckles. "First question: why are we here?"

Vizak squared his shoulders, as if preparing for attack. "I am not authorized to tell you this."

"Ok," she said pleasantly, beginning to walk in a slow circle around the room. "Then... how did we get here?"

"I am not authorized to tell you this."

"Hm." She tried to hop onto the platform and nearly ended up on her butt on the floor. Legolas, as closest to her, managed to grab her before she got hurt but every Drazi in the room tensed, and half sprang in her direction before they saw she was safe. A tiny smile appeared on her lips, and Legolas knew then that she had not slipped by accident.

"I wonder," Buffy continued calmly, "if you would be any more authorized to tell me if I threatened to hurt myself?" Lazily, she reached out a hand to Legolas. He knew right away what she wanted, and placed in her grasp one of the shivs he'd made from the spoons. She brought the sharp point to the side of her neck, and watched as the Drazi once again tensed, their hands twitching uncertainly in the direction of their weapons or her.

"For some reason, I am important to you," she said, her voice cold, and brought the shiv down to rest against her belly. The Drazi's anxiety ratcheted up a notch, and Vizak was fairly quivering with unease. "And this baby is even more important. So I suggest that if you want either of us, you start talking. Waking up this pregnant doesn't put me in the best of moods. Ooh, my hands are shaky! Just might slip!"

Vizak took a step forward, hands outstretched in pleading. "Please... please. I tell what you want. Please."

Buffy relaxed only marginally; she leant back and crossed her arms, the shiv's point still dangerously close to her belly. "Start talking."

"War is coming. Great war, many deaths." He heaved a huge sigh. "Many deaths. Drazi need great warrior to protect Freehold. Droshalla, whose light fills the world, said warrior to come from far away, long ago."

"Another divine prophecy," Buffy muttered. "And I'm always in the middle of them. I'm so lucky."

"Droshalla sent warrior to Drazi across time and space," Vizak continued. "Warrior about to die, about to be lost forever. Great waste, great waste. Droshalla hates waste, sends warrior to Drazi. Drazi very glad, much fear have Drazi of upcoming battles. Very great evil." He seemed almost to shiver.

"That explains me," Buffy replied testily, "but what about Legolas?" She gestured to him. "Why is he here, too? And why am I pregnant?"

"Drazi received warrior, but warrior not enough." He grimaced at Buffy's expression of affront. "Droshalla said greatest one comes from greatest two, and sent us other warrior." He nodded in Legolas' direction. "Other warrior is finest of his people, also about to die, also to be lost forever. Droshalla hates waste."

"So you've mentioned," Buffy said sourly. "I'm starting to get a picture here. You tell me if I'm wrong." Vizak nodded. "Droshalla, whoever that is, grabbed us just at the moments of our deaths to bring us here—wherever _here_ is—and dumped us on you Drazi. You made baby soup out of Legolas and I, made me pregnant, and now what?"

Vizak opened his mouth to speak but Legolas interrupted. "I, too, have an idea of what he means but—"To the surprise of the others, he began to laugh. "The child you carry cannot be mine, Buffy. I am sure I would remember its conception. That is not the sort of thing an elf forgets, especially as it is both sexual act and marriage vow." His blue eyes sparkled merrily even in the dingy light streaming down over them.

Buffy turned to him slowly, and her face was both patient and sympathetic. "Um, Legolas. Back in your world, sex is the only way to have children. But in other worlds, more advanced worlds, you can do it without sex."

His levity vanished, and his fists started to clench and unclench. "How?"

Vizak decided to answer. "Semen extracted from male, egg from female, joined in dish until egg fertilized, embryo replaced in female. Embryo grows, becomes baby."

Legolas began to appear distinctly queasy. Combined with the pure anger emanating from him, it wasn't his best look ever, Buffy decided. He was glowing brighter, too "You took... that... from me while I was unconscious? You created a child without our knowledge or consent?" Legolas started stomping around the room and waving his arms. "The creation of a daughter or son is a sacred act! A communion of both body and soul between two deeply in love! You have desecrated this holy deed, corrupted it! You have interfered with the natural work of the Valar! You have violated us beyond the mere rape of our bodies!"

Moving so quickly he was a mere blur of light, Legolas launched himself at Vizak and, with an effortless-seeming twist of hands, snapped his neck. The other Drazi had no time to react or scarcely even notice, because he was upon them immediately after. One by one they fell until one a single Drazi was left, and Buffy had to use all her strength to drag Legolas back from his cringing form.

"If you kill him, we won't get any more answers!" she hissed at him, and shoved him away before turning on the surviving Drazi a countenance no less grim or fearsome than the elf's. "There's more to this story," she stated. "I want to know what, or I'll kill you myself."

The Drazi was shaking so hard he could barely speak. "What do you want to know?"

"How long we've been here. How long I've been pregnant. When I'm due to deliver. Where we are. Why you didn't get rid of Legolas once his job was done." Behind her, Legolas was still pacing and muttering foul imprecations under his breath.

"You are here eleven Earther months, him ten. You are pregnant since nine months, baby will come soon now." When he stopped, she grabbed his collar and shook him around a little. "You are on Babylon 5. Other warrior remains because we needed his life for the machine."

Both Buffy and Legolas went very still. "What... machine?" Buffy asked through gritted teeth, and slammed his head against the wall.

"The Lifegiver," the Drazi wailed, clutching his abused head. "Your body not well with baby, was having problems... very ill, very ill. Drazi know nothing of human women, know nothing of pregnancy, know nothing of making warrior well. Baby needed healthy. Lifegiver here on Babylon 5, so warriors brought to Babylon 5. Lifegiver stolen, used to make warrior healthy by taking life from other warrior."

Buffy said nothing a long moment, only concentrated on breathing in and out through her nose to keep from killing the Drazi. This just got worse and worse. "There's more," she said flatly. "Isn't there?"

"If this war is imminent," Legolas put in, peering over her shoulder at the pitiful Drazi she had pinned against the wall, "then how will a newborn child aid your people?"

The Drazi brightened a bit. "Drazi thought Lifegiver would age baby faster,' he replied. "Lifegiver make baby adult in less than one Earther year. When war has come, when Drazi need help, baby is grown and ready to fight."

"You _thought_ the Lifegiver would age the baby faster?" Buffy demanded. "But you weren't sure?" At his slow shake of the head to the negative, she dropped him to the ground and turned to face Legolas. "I don't believe this," she mumbled. "These guys are... I don't know what they are."

Legolas brushed her aside to tower over the Drazi, now slumped on the floor. "Where is this Lifegiver?" The Drazi began to stammer its location; Legolas hauled him up and frog-marched him out of the room. Buffy waddled after them as fast as she could, taking in her surroundings with an avid eye.

The corridor was more metal walls, floor, and ceiling, but devoid of the wires and piping that characterized the room in which they'd been captive. The place was large, barren, and empty. "Who else knows we're here?" Buffy asked the Drazi.

"Now that all others are dead, only Freehold government and I know," he said. "But you have killed Vizak; he was ambassador to League of Non-Aligned Worlds. He will be missed."

"We will worry about that at a later time," Legolas said, and pushed the Drazi through the doorway he indicated. The room within was bare but for two chairs around a table, upon which squatted a device made of black metal.

"How does it work?" Buffy asked, stretching on tiptoes to see over Legolas' shoulder.

The Drazi touched one side. "Warrior connected here." Then he touched the other side. "Other warrior connected here. Push button, life taken from one, given to other. But," he continued, a quaver in his voice, "no need for you to know how to use it, I am here to help you."

"And the minute our backs are turned, you'll shoot us with those ray guns and we'll be back to being naked and unconscious on a table," Buffy said. "And you didn't even buy us dinner and a movie first. This is the worst date I've ever been on."

"Enough foolishness," Legolas declared, and snapped his neck. He dropped the Drazi's body to the floor, then turned to study Buffy.

"You're pretty big with the killing, aren't you?" she asked, wondering if he were some sort of death-happy wacko. Not exactly the best choice of gene-provider for her offspring, she'd have to say.

"You saw him," he replied, his voice hard. "All of them, but a step away from being orcs. Their stilted speech bore out my assumption."

"That could just have been the translation device!" Buffy exclaimed. "Some sort of malfunction!"

He put his nose in the air and turned toward the machine on the table. "The talisman would translate what they were saying, if they were capable of saying it," was all he said.

Buffy felt like banging her head on the wall in frustration. "I have to think about what to do," she muttered, rubbing her temples in little circles. "Now they're all dead, the only people who know we're here are the bigwigs of the Freehold. I assume that's their main planet, or whatever. They'll probably send someone to investigate, and this guy says Vizak will be missed. But we've got a little time. I say we explore, see what resources we've got."

Legolas nodded. The corridor outside the Lifegiver room stretched in either direction, and each took one and began to search. Buffy followed it as it wended left, then right. She came back to the room in which she and Legolas had been held captive; already the dead inside had begun to smell. Backing away, she wondered at that—it hadn't been long since Legolas had gone hog-wild and offed them all. Must be a species-specific thing, speedy decomposition. There was a panel of buttons on the wall outside the door, and she poked at them until the door slid shut.

Another room, and another, and another; dozens in all, each perfectly empty. Not a stick of furniture, not a sign of life. Still Buffy went until Legolas came out of a room in the corridor ahead of her, and she realized she'd gone in a big circle. Her bladder was telling her it was time to find a bathroom, she was hungry, and her back was killing her. Upon relating these things to Legolas, it occurred to her that she now had one hell of an close connection with him.

It made her angry. She'd never really expected to live long enough to become a mother, but if it had ever happened, she'd thought she'd at least get to experience the fun part of _getting_ pregnant before the crappy part of _being_ pregnant. "I feel rotten," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes.

Legolas came to her immediately, scooping her effortlessly into his arms. "I have found a rudimentary living space," he informed her as he carried her along. "There is no food, but there is a bed of sorts, and a privy." It took her a while to realize he meant "toilet" and her relief was such that she laughed, causing him to glance down at her. "I will search further and find food for you. There must be others in this place."

"Don't you mean 'for us'?" Buffy asked, trying to straighten up in his arms to look him in the face. "You need to eat, too."

His jaw tightened. "It is more important for you to eat than I," he replied. "I can go many days without anything. Any food I procure must go to keeping you nourished." She opened her mouth to argue but he looked down at her again, and something in the way his lips were pressed together suggested she would not win this argument.

The living quarters Legolas had found consisted of a cot bearing only a thin mattress, a straight-backed metal chair, and a steel sink with matching toilet jutting from the wall. The shiny silver seat looked guaranteed to freeze a girl's buns off but beggars couldn't be choosers at this stage of the game, Buffy decided. Legolas gave her some privacy, and she almost had a heart attack when she realized there was no toilet paper but then a stream of water came up and sluiced her clean before warm air gusted up from some unknown source to dry her off.

"Not bad at all," she murmured, and turned to the sink to wash her hands and face. Drying them on the hem of her skirt, she sat on the cot and waited for Legolas to return. When he did, it was with several tins of what appeared, by the photos on the labels, to contain more of the green and brown goo they'd been fed before.

"Oh, goodie," Buffy grumbled, but stretched out her hands for them anyway. Opening them was easy; just press a thumb to the circle at the top and the lid popped off. Without utensils, she was forced to scoop out the contents with her fingers. She even ate the brown stuff this time. Legolas demurred when she offered him what she couldn't eat. "You might as well," she told him. "My fingers aren't long enough to reach the bottom of the can anyway."

He took the cans and scooped out the rest, then to her shock offered her his fingers to lick. Buffy blinked at him, feeling a weird thick heat spread in her at the idea of such an intimate touch between them; in spite of circumstances, they were still total strangers to each other. It didn't help that he was, quite possibly, the best-looking man she'd ever laid eyes on and in another time and place she would have beat down his door to lick him clean.

But right here, right now, Buffy shook her head. "You need to eat too," she insisted, pushing his hand back toward his own mouth and watching as his pink tongue came out to remove the unsightly stuff. The heat within her shifted lower, and Buffy wondered how normal it was for a hugely pregnant woman to be capable of getting turned on. "I'm... just going to try to sleep now," she said, her voice sounding tight, and lay down on the cot.

She felt perfectly safe with him sitting next to her in the chair, and once he stopped eating and was still for a while, the lights shut off. But still she couldn't sleep. "I'm cold," she whispered, and after a pause, Legolas stood. The lights flashed on and Buffy watched as he gently turned her to her side and lay behind her, curling his long body around hers so his body heat could keep her warm. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," he replied softly, his breath blowing a tendril of hair into her ear and making it tickle. She brushed it aside, sighed, and was finally able to relax enough to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Pierce the Darkness  
****Chapter 3**

Legolas almost changed his mind about what he meant to do when he rose from the narrow cot and Buffy shivered. But it was the very shivering that convinced him that he needed to search further afield from this dreary labyrinth of corridors and empty rooms for items to sustain them—she needed warmer clothing, and blankets, and a higher quality of food.

He woke her, murmuring that he was going out. She only tried (unsuccessfully) to curl tighter in spite of her rounded belly and mumbled, falling asleep again almost immediately. Legolas left the room and strode quickly down the corridor toward the door behind which, yesterday, he'd seen the stairs leading both down and up.

_Which to choose?_ As he paused, indecisive, in the threshold, the sound of a door scraping open caught his attention. Leaning forward, he peered toward the bottom of the stairwell to see two creatures walk to the bottom of the steps.

One had a bald brown head and two long protuberances dangling off his face from where his nose would be, hanging halfway to his chest, and large glistening eyes. The other had an odd, down-turned face that resembled nothing so much as one of the uglier varieties of birds in its stage of infancy, and its respiration was noisy and laboured-sounding when it spoke.

"Malein's charging more for enviro-paks lately," the bird-like one rasped. "Soon I shall not be able to afford his ridiculous prices." He barely spared a glance at Legolas as they passed.

"You should see what he demanded for this!" exclaimed the other, facial tentacles waggling from the force of his ire as he raised a sack to eye level and shook it for emphasis, apparently unconcerned with how it dripped a viscous lavender goo. "I cannot believe my particular needs merit the smuggling of two crates of stims onto the station."

They continued up the second half of the flight of stairs "If you would just eat live or recently dead food like any other civilized race," the bird-creature replied, eying the sack with distaste, "you would not have to trouble yourself with such matters."

The tentacled one sniffed haughtily, completely ignoring the elf watching them in silent amazement. "My people eat carrion, as well you are aware," he stated. "Only a more sophisticated person can truly appreciate the fine bouquet of meat that is several weeks dead."

The door clicked shut, and the other's response was lost to Legolas. He stood there a long moment, numb with shock. No matter how he tried, there was absolutely no explanation he could devise that would account for what he had just seen and heard. They, like the Drazi, were misshapen and grotesque in appearance but unlike their erstwhile captors, spoke in speech as refined as any Man or Dwarf (thought he refused to compare them to his fellow Edhel).

Legolas felt ignorant and vulnerable, two things guaranteed to make him out-of-sorts, and reconsidered his decision to seek supplies; this was clearly a place rife with all manner of life, and he had no weapon beyond the shivs he had fashioned from the spoons. What if he were attacked, and unable to return to Buffy?

She carried his child, though he had not placed it within her in the conventional way. She was bound to him in body, if not in soul, and her life as well as that of their daughter or son was his responsibility. But there was not enough of that dubious food substance to last long, he admitted to himself. It would soon be gone, and what then? No, he had to take the risk.

With that thought firmly in mind, he descended the staircase. One last glance backward told him he had left the area known as Brown 32, whatever that indicated. He squared his shoulders and opened the door to his left.

Immediately, his acute senses were assaulted; the corridors that stretched before him were filled with the pervasive evidence of life: messy corridors strewn with pungent garbage, the low hum of voices punctuated by the occasional clang of metal or rushing of liquid somewhere behind the walls. The floor plan seemed identical to that of the level Legolas and Buffy had awakened upon, but whereas that one was characterized by its barrenness and glaring bright light, this was just the opposite.

Dimly lit, for which Legolas soon became quite relieved, the corridors were strewn with all manner of refuse: boxes, rags, scraps of food and cloth. Dirt was thick beneath his unshod feet, and the smell of urine was rank in his nose. He felt a fleeting moment of panic, much like that experienced when he'd first stepped inside Moria. Were there no windows in the entirety of this cursed place? The air was stale and thick, with a greasy grey haze to it, and Legolas altered his breathing to be more shallow, so as not to take as much of it into his lungs.

Beyond the foul smells was another aroma, that of cooking food, and he found himself following it. He rounded one corner, and another, until he discovered a family huddled around a metal canister perched precariously atop a damaged crate, a small fire crackling within. Thin, pale faces lifted to him, and the woman's grip on her bent spoon tightened as if she prepared to go into battle.

"Move out of the way for the man," she directed the children softly, and obediently, they shifted to the side to make room for his passage. Legolas opened his mouth to ask for some of the food, wanting to take it to Buffy, but he found himself unable to speak the words.

"Thank you," was what he ended up saying, nodding politely as he walked by. Then, "Enjoy your meal." The smallest child, a boy, summoned a slight smile for him and nodded back. Then they all turned back to the smoky little fire and huddled close once more, his presence already forgotten.

A sick feeling started in Legolas' stomach once he was on his way once more; clearly, some illness or accident had befallen the woman's husband if she were forced to live in this hellish place, her children subsisting on what had appeared, when he'd glanced into the pot, to be a scant and watery gruel.

_That will not be Buffy,_ he vowed silently, and quickened his pace. More voices beckoned his attention, and he hurried down the corridor to find a group of men clustered together around a makeshift table. There was another of the bird-like creatures Legolas had seen in the stairwell with the tentacle-faced one, but all the rest were of normal Mannish appearance.

One man, better dressed and healthier-looking than the rest, stood behind it with two cups in his hands and a third on the table. The rest, poorly attired and all exhibiting signs of poor health, gazed eagerly down. Curious, Legolas looked, too. On the table were two crude little wooden blocks, and one small enamel statuette.

"Let's see your wagers, gents," said the man behind the table. "If you can guess which cup the statue's under, there's a case of fresh spoo in it for you." On the floor beside him was a small crate, presumably containing the spoils he mentioned.

_It is a game,_ Legolas realized with a jolt. _These fools are gambling when their belongings would be much better kept in their own possession. _

One chap, short and stocky, dropped an item—quite similar to the weapons the Drazi had fired at Legolas-- into the basket beside the cups on the table. "It's worth 250 credits!" he declared hopefully.

"A W&G Model 10?" the gamester sneered. "Do you know how common these are? I can wave my hand and have a thousand of them in a half-hour."

The man's expression of anxiety grew as he took the weapon back and rummaged in the voluminous pockets of his overcoat for something else, withdrawing another weapon, this one boxy and unwieldy. "It's a Kalat Avenger," he said. "I took it off a Narn just yesterday, still fully charged." When the gamester's face lost none of its sternness, he continued, "It's worth 300 credits! That's certainly enough for a few games!"

"A few? Try one," the gamester corrected. "Just half of this spoo is worth 300 credits." His smirk turned crafty. "But I'm a generous man. I'll give you one go, for the Avenger."

The man's relief was nearly tangible, and he bounced on the balls of his feet in anticipation as the gamester upended the cups over the blocks and statue. He began to shuffle the cups around, weaving them back and forth with such speed and dexterity that had Legolas not had the acuity typical of his race he would have been hard-pressed indeed to keep track of where the statuette was.

The gamester stopped finally, and grinned appealingly at his customers. "Well, my fine sir?" he enquired heartily. "Which cup do you call?"

"The left one!" cried the fellow who'd bet the weapon. "It was there all the while, I know it!" There was a thread of desperation in his voice, and Legolas knew that he had the illness that sometimes afflicted a Man, that of compulsion to gamble.

The gamester's pallid fingers lifted the left cup and revealed a dull brown block instead of the shiny little figurine. "Sorry, mate!" said the gamester, his voice all oil and false sympathy. "Why not try again? Surely your luck has to turn around sometime!"

"If you won't take the W&G Model 10, I don't dare," the man whispered, his gaze flickering down the corridor toward where Legolas had just come. "My family..."

Pity filled Legolas, then rage at the suspicion that this man was the head of the wretched things he'd just passed in the corridor, eking by on thin soup and hope. Had he no sense? This was a game none could win! None but...

Legolas' lips thinned to a line and he strode forward. "If one of you but lends me the coin, I shall win it back for you, and more besides."

The men clustered round stepped back to make room for him. "And who might you be, friend?" asked the gamester, his gaze curious and wary.

Legolas just stared at him and held out a hand, waiting for someone to place the ante in his hand. When a cool weight settled into his palm, he looked to find the stocky man who'd just lost peering anxiously at him.

"Can you really do it, mister?" he asked, watery blue eyes alight with a mixture of hope and apprehension. "I can't afford to lose any more—"

"You should not have lost any," Legolas told him severely, and tossed the item—a short length of clear crystal-- into the basket.

"What is it?" the gamester demanded, squinting suspiciously at it as the murky light winked off its facets.

"It's a data crystal from a Vicar," the pale-eyed man whispered, sweat dotting his brow. "It's worth a fortune." The gamester pursed his lips as avarice lit his eyes, and then he nodded.

Legolas was tired of this—both the gambling addict and the gamester were repulsive to him on a variety of levels and he wished nothing so much as to be away from them. "Begin," he commanded the gamester, who blinked and slowly replaced the cups. He started to shuffle them, his hands moving with practiced grace in increasing speed until they were just a pale blur in the dim corridor.

When he stopped, his hands fluttered nervously before being consciously stilled and placed on the edge of the table. "Okay, mister," the gamester said to Legolas. "You're so confident, let's see what you can do."

Legolas resisted the urge to roll his eyes and merely tapped the cup with the statuette under it. "This one," he declared, aware that the men pressing close around him were all holding their breath in anticipation.

The gamester's face tightened with displeasure as he lifted the cup and there, for all to behold, was the little figurine. He recovered quickly, though, and flashed a greasy smile. "There's always someone who can get it on the first try," he said. "But I'd wager you can't do it again."

Legolas turned back from where he was handing the container of spoo (whatever that was) to the stocky man. "How much?" he inquired coolly. "I can win each time, as many times as I play."

The gamester's face flushed an unpleasant, mottled red. "I say you can't," he said, his voice close to a snarl. "The odds—"

"The odds do not apply to me," Legolas interrupted. "I am Edhel."

There was no comprehension on the gamester's face, not on any of the other men's; Legolas wondered where in Middle-earth they might be, that none had heard of the Elves. It had to be far indeed from the regions he normally frequented. Perhaps these folk had lived so long in this stifling underground place that they had forgotten the Children of the Stars?

It was a quandary for another time. Now, Legolas slapped the crystal back down on the table and met the gaze of the gamester. "I bet this," he said, "And you shall wager the weapon this man has just lost to you."

The gamester stared at him a long moment before nodding grimly, then dropped the cup over the statue and began to shuffle. His hands were nearly invisible, fluid and sinuous, as he shifted the cups over the scarred surface of the table. When he stopped, his face was confident as he wordlessly challenged Legolas to guess if he might.

_How ridiculous,_ Legolas thought. Even if he had not had the ability to follow the speed of the gamester's movements, still there were cues aplenty one might use. The cup under which hid one block had a tiny hairline crack at the base; the cup covering the other block had a minute chip on the rim. Though perhaps, he was prepared to acknowledge, these Men were unable to see the flaws with their less-sharp eyesight...

It did not matter. Legolas indicated the correct cup, and once again had the satisfaction of seeing the displeasure on the gamester's face as he turned it over and showed the insipid little shepherdess in her shiny porcelain skirts and glazed-pink bonnet.

He managed not to smirk too much as the weapon and crystal were dropped with great reluctance into his hand. "Shall we play again?" he asked, his voice almost a purr. "Surely my luck cannot hold."

The gamester laughed nervously, eyes darting around. "Actually, I have somewhere I need to go—"

"Give him the chance to earn back what we've lost," said one of the men, stepping forward. He was easily as tall as Legolas himself, and burly. One by one the other men raised their voices in agreement and, facing a mutiny of sorts, the gamester was forced to agree.

Shuffle, reveal: another win for the Elf. And another, and another. On and on it went, and finally the gamester was forced to quit; Legolas had won every item he had—the crates behind him, formerly filled with all the items used as wagers, had been returned to their previous owners.

Their little audience fled as soon as everything had been redistributed; Legolas' unprecedented winning streak seemed to scare them for some reason he could not fathom, and even his most ardent admirer—the stocky father to the family of before—had left with a rather anxious backward glance, after pressing the "W&G Model 10" into his hand with a mumble of gratitude.

"My thanks," Legolas told the gamester with magnanimity. He had won everything back for the others over the course of an hour or so, and had the weapon as his own. His bare feet, clad only in thin socks, were cold from standing on the chilly metal floor of the corridor for so long.

The gamester flung the cups, blocks, and statuette into a small case, clicked the latch closed, and turned to glare at him. "Watch your back," he growled. "My boss doesn't like people who cost him money."

"And I," Legolas replied, "do not like to be threatened." He narrowed his eyes at the man. "You may tell your 'boss' that."

One last sneer, and the man was gone. Legolas was at somewhat of a loss for what to do. Slowly, his head downcast as he thought, he retraced his steps toward the stairs leading to Brown 32 until a voice broke into his reverie.

"That was amazing!" exclaimed a voice, and Legolas looked up to see the stocky man of before with the rest of his family. "How'd you do it, mister? What was your trick?"

He felt rather disconcerted, with so many eyes fixed so expectantly upon him. "I used no trick," he demurred. "Just the gifts the Ilúvatar gave me at my birth."

"See, a religious man," murmured the mother of the family. Her arms rested protectively around the shoulders of two of her brood, and she squeezed them lightly to call attention to her words.

Legolas was a little mystified; he was not sure what "religious" meant, though he had some idea. But he was no more pious than any other of his kin. "Do you know where I might obtain some boots?" he asked.

"There's shops up in the Zocalo," suggested the eldest child, a daughter in her teens. Her dark eyes were fixed upon his face with an intensity that spoke of a burgeoning infatuation. "But they'll cost you a fortune."

It was just on Legolas' lips to ask how to find this place—his total lack of money notwithstanding-- when the father spoke up. "Malein is sure to take an interest in how you was able to beat his game. He don't take kindly to losing, that one."

"Malein?" Legolas asked. "The gamester warned me about his boss. Have I aught to fear?" His tone said clearly that he was rather a stranger to that negative emotion.

"I'd keep my back to the wall if I was you, mister," the man replied slowly. ""Malein likes to run things tight here in Downbelow. It won't be long before he goes looking for you, before you can cost him any more."

"Then I shall be careful," Legolas said, and bowed slightly. This family, with their eager words and thin faces, was disturbing to him and he wanted to be away from them. Turning, he stepped quickly down the corridor.

He wandered down one hallway and another, peering into various rooms and chambers, asking everyone he saw where he could make some purchases. But all and sundry seemed reluctant to speak with him, and he wondered if the gamester had already set into motion some campaign of ostracism.

Hours passed. His belly rumbled with hunger, and he wondered how Buffy fared. He hoped she did not worry about him, that she was comfortable and safe without him to help her. His fury from yesterday, at the violation of his body by the Drazi, had not abated but his shock over his impending fatherhood was wearing off with the typical resilience of the Eldar.

His people were never surprised by pregnancy; it was always a choice, always an undertaking approached with the utmost prudence and caution. A child was never conceived in times of strife and war, nor when the people involved were not deeply in love and ready and willing for such a commitment to the child and each other. For him to share such a link of deep intimacy with a woman he did not know, had never met, had certainly never made love to, was unthinkable.

And yet, think of it he must. That he was the child's father was not in dispute, nor was his desire to parent it. His connection to Buffy, however... what was she to him? Never before had he known of two who had procreated without sharing a profound love. Quite plainly, he had no idea what to do with her. How was he supposed to raise a child with a woman for whom he had no feelings of devotion, love, desire? In his experience, two did not conceive without lovemaking, and there was no lovemaking without firm and unbreakable bonds of marriage and affection.

Conception went hand in hand with marriage and love. There were no children without love between the parents. He did not love Buffy, nor did she him, and yet this child existed. It was quite beyond the scope of his comprehension, and made his head ache.

After going over it for several hours, Legolas thought he might have an answer of sorts. He and Buffy had never made love; therefore, they were not wed by traditional means. Yet there was a child, a child that would need both its parents. There was no way Legolas would fail to be a part of his son's or daughter's life, nor would he allow another man to raise his child.

He came to the conclusion that, lovemaking or no, Buffy was the mother of his child, and as such was his wife and mate. How the child came to be was irrelevant; only that it _was_. There had never been another Edhel born whose parents were not wed, and their situation would be no different.

Satisfied with his decision, Legolas continued his prowl for supplies. He was unwilling to return without at least procuring some food and a blanket for Buffy. He came, at last, to what could loosely be termed a shop; slightly damaged goods were arranged artlessly on various tables and crates with grimy tags announcing their worth.

He found a warm-looking tunic of thick fabric, with full sleeves and an open front that would fit over her burgeoning belly, that would be perfect for Buffy. There were also some boots and a sleeveless garment that laced up for himself.

"Do you have any food I could buy?" he asked the merchant, but he was preoccupied with an exchange of glances with another man who was walking by; the newcomer's mien was distinctly ominous, if the cold slits of his eyes were any indication. A short, quick shake of his head to the merchant, and then he melted into the dank shadows.

"No," the merchant said shortly, and began hurriedly to pack up his wares.

Legolas glided over to him and grasped a handful of his shirt, hauling him close. "You say that under duress," he hissed at the man. "I tired rapidly of the corruption of this place. Your petty issues do not concern me; I need food, and I shall have it. This weapon—" he removed it from where he'd stowed it in his tunic—"is worth 250 credits, I am told. I am willing to trade for what I want, but will take it by force if you refuse to sell it to me."

"That'll be all, Gregor," drawled a voice from behind Legolas, and he slowly turned his head to find the man from before, who'd glared the merchant into refusing to sell the food, standing there. His feet were firmly planted on the floor as if bracing himself for a fight and he leant on a smooth metal staff, though he did not appear lame or otherwise in need of support. Legolas found himself smiling faintly as he released the merchant.

Gregor took off at a run, leaving Legolas alone with the newcomer. "Are you Malein, then?" Legolas asked. "I've heard you would be displeased with my run of good luck at the cups."

The man gave a snort of laughter. "Malein doesn't lower himself to associate with the likes of you," he grunted. Legolas took one look at his homely and scarred face and thought it an ironic statement. "But he's been made aware that you've already cost him a Vicaran data crystal, along with the rest of the day's take from that game of cups." He sauntered closer. "And he's not happy about it."

"I _am_ sorry," Legolas lied. "Perhaps his luck was just as bad today, as mine was good?"

The man's face twisted with anger. "Good luck, my ass," he snarled, and pressed something on his staff that made it hiss and glow, crackling with energy. "No one cheats Malein and gets away with it."

With that, he advanced upon Legolas, who gave not a single thought to the weapon he had just tried to trade to the merchant; he had no idea how to use it, after all. Legolas dodged nimbly to one side and struck with a swift hand to the back of his opponent's neck. Rendered unconscious, he fell flat on his face to the ground, his staff falling to the side and abruptly returning to its former inert state.

Legolas advanced gingerly; a finger to the man's throat told him he was dead. Legolas went to the staff and nudged it with a cautious toe. When he remained uninjured, he grasped it and found it perfectly weighted, a superb weapon that he could actually use. Then he looked around-- Gregor had departed without his belongings and Legolas felt only the slightest pang of conscience as he pulled on the tunic and boots he'd found for himself, then a back-holster of sorts, into which fitted the staff.

Then he quickly packed whatever else he thought could be useful into a single crate and hefted it up. He made his way back toward Brown 32, glad to see the family of before had departed, leaving only the steaming can in which had burnt their cook-fire.

By the time he was once more walking down the sterile corridor toward where he'd left Buffy earlier, he was flushed with pleasure at having been able to provide for her and their child, no matter that his methods had been... unsavoury.

She was lying on the cot when he entered the room, but not asleep—she bounded upright into an attack stance but relaxed when she saw it was him. "I see you were able to find some things for us," she commented mildly.

"I am not sure if there is any food anywhere within these items," Legolas told her, pulling out the garment for her and several thick blankets, "but at least you shall not be cold again this night."

She stared at him a long moment before nodding, a faint smile gracing her lips. "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate it."

He nodded and dug into the crate once more. "I have procured two weapons," he told her conversationally, "though one remains a mystery to me and the other has untold abilities beyond what I know I can do with it." He placed them on the cot before her.

Buffy picked up the W&G. "I think I can use this one," she commented.

"Then keep that, for your protection, should something happen when I am not here."

She glanced up at him quickly, hazel eyes keen. "What happened?" she asked. "Something happened."

"I believe I have made an enemy," Legolas admitted.

"Already?" Buffy groaned. "It's only been a day."

"He was cheating the impoverished," he said defensively. "I won back what they lost, returned it to them."

She stared at him a long moment, then began to laugh so hard she had to sit, groping behind her for the chair. "Oh, shit," she gasped, wiping her eyes. "Robin Hood. The father of my hitchhiker is Robin Hood."

He blinked, unsure what a 'hitchhiker' was, but thinking it did not sound complimentary. "Speaking of which," he began, "I have been pondering our situation."

"Oh?" Buffy asked, sobering instantly and eying him warily. "And what conclusion did you come to?"

Legolas leant against the cool metal wall and surveyed her calmly. "Though we have never made love, still you carry my child. I do not believe the means matters overmuch, merely the ends. Therefore, as the mother of my daughter or son, you are my wife, and I your husband. As such, we are bound together forever."

Whatever reaction he had expected—disbelief, anger—her laughter was one he had not considered. "Um, that might be how it was back in Happy Land, or wherever Elves come from," she said when she'd calmed down once more, "but in my world, and this one I suspect too, things are different." She shifted, trying to make herself more comfortable. "There's no magical bonding of souls, and you sure as hell can't just state that we're married and have it be so. So, sorry. But no."

He sighed. "You do not understand. I am Eldar. There is no other alternative."

She only shrugged. "Tough. Bad enough to have motherhood forced on me, I'm not going to let wifehood be forced on me, too."

"Whether you accept it or not means naught," Legolas gritted out, his patience waning.

"It means _everything_," Buffy hissed at him, standing clumsily and getting right in his face. "I haven't saved the world nine times, and died three times, just to back down when some jerk declares me his own personal broodsow. So you can just forget it. _I'm_ the one inhabited by Junior, here, so we're gonna keep me happy and do what I want. I've got enough problems right now, and a pissy father-to-be isn't going to be yet another one. Clam up, or I swear I will leave here and you will never see me or the baby again. Is that clear?"

Legolas was taken aback by the vehemence of her words. She had been so calm to this point that he had underestimated the depth of her upset concerning this situation. His mind whirled as it processed what she had told him. She was of a people who did not wed as his did; it would take her some time to become used to the idea. He could wait.

Would _have_ to wait, really, because what other choice did he have? She was volatile and seemed stubborn enough to follow through with her threat, and there was no way he could permit her to take his child with her, never to see him or her.

Slowly, he nodded agreement. "As you wish," he said, but finished in his head, _for the moment._ He had no intention of allowing her to roam freely without the protection of his bond upon her, nor would his child be fatherless.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **thanks to all reviewers, glad you're enjoying it :)

**Pierce the Darkness, chapter 4**

_One Week Later_

Her back was killing her. She couldn't see her feet, which had swollen along with her ankles to impressive proportions. She was craving all sorts of bizarre foods, like those yokdri Legolas had brought home a few days ago.

More specifically, yokdri with baiyou. Even better was yokdri _in_ baiyou—the crunchiness of the fried treeworms was a perfect counterpoint to the sponginess of the blue Jello-like Centauri delicacy. Just thinking about it made her stomach growl hungrily.**__**

But they were out of yokdri, out of baiyou, out of even the cases of pre-packaged flarn and breen Legolas had picked up off a Narn down in Brown 12. Not that she was hugely fond of flarn—tofu had never been a favourite—and there were only so many of the Swedish meatball-type breen a girl could stuff into herself, but they were at least an improvement over the green and brown goo the Drazi had fed them.

She glanced down at her wrist, where the face of a watch was stuck somehow to her skin, adhering without a strap. It was after six o'clock in the evening, and even if Legolas had gone to the outer levels he should have been back by now…****

Hating the worry that bubbled up in her for him—worry indicated caring, which meant she was liking him and that could be dangerous—she stomped back to the room they shared and set about cleaning it for the tenth time that day.

Buffy was bored. Traumatically, soul-scarringly bored. Knowing that familiarity with the world around her was the key to getting Legolas to let her out of here, she studied her notes of whatever he told her about where they were until she was cross-eyed.

She knew that the Centauri were getting more aggressive, that they'd attacked the Narn again and were systematically taking over scores of colonies on their borders. No wonder the Drazi had been so upset—they'd lost a dozen colonies already, as had the Pak'ma'ra. And there were whispers of some other new danger, of black ships that screamed like your worst nightmare… Legolas had said that everyone in Downbelow was tense and frightened.

Downbelow. That was the name of this place she and Legolas were in. Unfortunately, she didn't know what they were down below _of_, and Legolas always became irritatingly vague on the issue when she asked. He was still stubbornly insisting they were merely in a huge and elaborate network of caves beneath the surface of his world, Arda.

Buffy wasn't so sure. Yes, Xander had made her watch far too many sci-fi shows, but unless something _drastically_ weird had happened to the population of the Earth, the Drazi were aliens. Legolas, too, was an alien, for that matter. And judging from the sketches he'd made of the creatures he met when he left each day, there were piles more aliens out there, too.

There were no windows anywhere that Buffy had been able to find in her searching of Brown 32. Desperate for sunlight and fresh air, Legolas had been searching without success for some, too. That kind of made Buffy think they were on a spaceship of some sort. A really _big_ one.

_One without comfortable furniture,_ she thought with a sigh as she lowered herself into the uncushioned steel chair. She supposed she should be happy they even _had_ the chair, but then decided she wasn't in a glass-is-half-full mood at the moment and indulged in a moment of surliness.

Chairs, aliens, food, and space ships aside, there was another issue that had Buffy worked up. It was an issue she stuffed to the back of her mind, refused to deal with, refused to even admit existed. Because if she did, it would escape her control, and then god only knew what would happen then.

Rage.

Also known as fury, anger, wrath, ire… she'd been numb the first few days after waking up and finding herself pregnant, numb and disbelieving. Then the anger had kicked in and it was, in Buffy's estimation, a miracle of the first order that she hadn't gone insane and killed Legolas, then ventured out of Brown 34 and killed anyone else whose throat she'd managed to get her hands on.

How was it remotely possible? Buffy had never thought she'd become a mother—death was always nipping at her heels. No sooner had one apocalypse been put down than another was rearing its head and building strength. When would she have nine uninterrupted months of peace and quiet? Never, that's when. She'd fight until a demon got his good day and she died. Her path led to a box in the ground, not a delivery room.

And then there was the method and source… she hadn't been made pregnant in the usual, and infinitely more enjoyable, way nor had the father been someone she loved and wanted to create life with. She didn't even know Legolas, let alone want to have a kid with him. Hot he might be, but also bossy, proprietary, chauvinistic, and…

Buffy glanced at her watch again: 6:15. And _late_. The Elf was late. What if something had happened to him? In the week since they'd woken up, he'd insinuated himself into the murky world of arms running with frightening ease, making her wonder exactly what sort of people these Eldar/Edhel guys were, anyway. **__**

He'd just sorta waltzed in and taken over. And in spite of at least five death threats and a few murder attempts daily, he acted like it was all in a day's work.

She heaved herself up from the chair and reclined on the cot, settling in to fume some more about him. Legolas was overprotective, and treated her like she was made of glass, never allowing her to lift anything heavier than a teacup and babying her until she wanted to scream. She was a Slayer, for god's sake. She was the strongest and toughest human on the planet, and just because she had another person growing inside her—and didn't that just sound _gross_?—didn't mean she was no longer either of those things.

He treated her like she was feeble and incompetent, like she couldn't make adequate decisions. She, who had battled gods. She, who had saved the world a dozen times. It was enough to give a girl a complex.

Beneath it was the niggling suspicion that it wasn't _her_ Legolas was concerned with, that she was just serving as an incubator for his child. She'd spent almost half her life as the Slayer, and the first years of her tenure as The Chosen One had been as the Watchers' Council's piece of meat, a tool, nothing more. She'd had a bellyful of being dehumanized, thankyouverymuch, and was not so eager to get back into that unhappy groove any time soon.

Feeling that familiar rage start to build, feeling resentment rise, Buffy opened her eyes and looked down to find her hands in her lap, clenching repeatedly into deadly little fists.

"Stress is not good for the baby," Legolas said mildly, and she looked up to find him standing in the doorway. He'd taken to dressing like a Narn, which meant lots of leather and metal studs. Buffy thought he looked like a dominatrix's wet dream.

He glided over to her in that supremely graceful way of his and sat on the cot beside her, taking her hands in his and rotating his thumbs on her palms, massing the tension away. "What can have made you so irate?"

"I don't give a crap about the baby," Buffy growled, trying to snatch her hands from his, but he only went after them again, finding little knots of tension in the mound under her thumbs and easing them away.

"You do not mean that," he murmured, tugging her forward to lean against him and wrapping one arm around her to stroke soothingly over her back.

"Don't tell me what I mean!" she exclaimed, trying to struggle free of him, but he only put the other arm around her too, holding on like one of those sucker-fish things that stick to sharks and pressing her head against his shoulder. "I know what I mean better than you do, and I really, really don't care about this thing inside me. I just want it _out_."

Legolas' face, when he drew back, was amused. "All women feel that way when their time is near," he said. His tone was patronizing, and to Buffy, it was the final straw. Pulling back her fist, she punched him with all her might.

He sailed back, tumbling to the floor and rolling until the wall stopped him. Slowly, he sat up and pushed his hair off his face, staring at her with eyes wide with amazement and dawning anger.

Buffy got to her feet and stood over him, furious. "Don't you ever treat me like that again," she whispered, not trusting herself not to scream like a madwoman. "I am not 'all women'. I'm not just being hormonal. I have not had nine months to get used to being this pregnant, I didn't even have the choice to be pregnant in the first place.

"You killed all those Drazi in a rage at being raped for your sperm, but you got off easy, _Elf_. You don't have it inside you, changing your body, slowing you down and making someone else treat you like a useless walking womb."

Her hands were clenching again, and she was feeling light-headed. Unsteadily, she made her way back to the cot. He was on his feet immediately, trying to help her, but she slapped his hands away viciously. "Don't _touch_ me," she hissed. "God, I can't stand when you touch me."

He drew back as if she'd struck him again. "The child is mine as well as yours," he said, his voice low and uncertain. "I have a right to be concerned with how your behaviour affects his health—"

Buffy leant back against the wall and closed her eyes. "If I weren't pregnant with your child, would you act the same way?" she interrupted.

Legolas was quiet a moment. "I don't understand."

She opened her eyes and regarded him steadily. "If we woke up in that room and I wasn't pregnant, would you behave as you do toward me? Would we even still be here together? Or would we have gone separate ways, trying to return home?"

"I… do not know."

She closed her eyes once more. "_I_ know," she said, feeling immeasurably tired. "The answer is no. No, you wouldn't treat me like a useless burden. No, you wouldn't forbid me to leave this area when you leave for the day."

Buffy sighed. "You only concern yourself with me because of the baby. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't bother with me, and you know it. All I am is a womb to you, something you need for an ulterior motive."

Legolas looked horrified by her accusation. "How can you say that?"

Blinking her eyes open, she fixed them on him. "When he's born, will you even want me around, still?"

"Of course," he replied automatically. "Our child will need his mother—" He stopped when he saw her face crumple.

"See?" she said, throat constricting. "I'm nothing but the baby's mother. I'm not the Slayer, I'm not even Buffy. I'm just… a means to an end. _I_ don't matter. Without this baby, I'm nothing to you or anyone else."

He just stood there, stricken, and Buffy was reminded of nothing so much as a deer poised for flight. Finally, he walked back to the corridor and brought in a small package. "For you," he said stiffly, as if his lips weren't working properly, before leaving her there.

Buffy opened the package; inside was a collection of small paintings. The scenes were of places she'd never seen—exotic worlds with three suns in a vivid scarlet sky, or swirling purple seas crashing upon a pale celadon shore.

Just yesterday, she'd complained about the barrenness of their room and said it needed a little artwork to liven up the place. It had been a throwaway comment, just Buffy expressing her frustration at being cooped up in a tiny windowless place, but Legolas had heard it and remembered, and brought her a present.

"Legolas!" she called, struggling to her feet after placing the paintings down with care. She sniffled and realized she'd begun crying. _Dammit_, she thought, but began to run as best she could from the room and down the corridor.

She couldn't hold the speed for long; her belly was unwieldy and jounced uncomfortably, even if she clasped both arms around it for support. "Legolas!" she shouted, wincing at the loud echo off the metal walls. But there was no reply. "Where are you?" she asked dejected, head drooping.

"What is it?" he asked from behind her, and she whirled around so suddenly her feet tangled in her skirts. In an instant, he was there, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her back toward their room.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, trying to hold herself as separate from him as she could in that circumstance. "I can be a real bitch sometimes. I really thought that's how you felt… I didn't know." When he said nothing, she continued hopefully, "Thank you for the paintings. They're… really strange."

Another beat of silence, and then: "They are strange, are they not? What imagination the artist possessed… three suns, indeed." His arms curled tighter around her, and her arm fastened around his neck. "I am sorry I do not acknowledge you as a person more often, Buffy."

Back in their room, Legolas peeled the covers away and set her down on the cot. "Truly, I do value you as an individual, not merely as a womb. You are the mother of my child, and though you do not accept it, my wife. As such, you hold my immense respect and care."

Nudging her over, he shucked his boots and lay beside her, pulling the covers over them both before curling himself around her. "Even should this child perish, I am bound to you for all days, Buffy." His warm breath against her ear and neck was making her shiver. "And the prospect is not so grim to me as you seem to think. Were you not so great with child, I would show you in ways better than mere words."

His hand came up then, cupping her breast and stroking his thumb over her stiffening nipple. "You were chosen as the best of your kind, and in the time I have known you, your strength has never faltered," he murmured, placing a kiss in the hollow of her clavicle. "You are a woman any man would be proud to have for his own."

"For all days?" she repeated shakily, her breath shallow as his hand smoothed down over her belly to her hip and thigh, then back up.

In response, he turned her face to him and settled his lips firmly on hers, kissing her gently at first, then with more passion as she opened her mouth to him. They both twisted, trying to face each other better, and soon Buffy found herself on her back with Legolas draped over her. His hand reclaimed her breast, kneading and squeezing, and his knee slid between her legs, rubbing insistently.

When he finally pulled back, he was panting as hard as she. His face was flushed and his eyes sparkling and bright, bright blue. "There," he said breathlessly, gaze roaming over her features with frank appreciation. "I trust that convinces you that I see you as something more than merely the mother of my child?"

Buffy tangled her hands in his hair, staring up at the ceiling in a daze. "Mhmm," she answered at last, after he nudged her for a reply.

Smiling, Legolas bent his head and nuzzled under her ear, nipping at the lobe. "I cannot wait until he is born, and we do not have to stop. I feel quite… cheated, that we are to be parents without experiencing the actual conception."

"Me too," she blurted, then blushed when his smile became a full-out grin of satisfaction. "Don't be cocky," she scolded, smacking him lightly on the arm. "When I'm back to 100 I'll give you a run for your money. I'm a Slayer, you know. We're built for speed and endurance."

"The speed will not be necessary, I assure you," Legolas told her soberly. "I intend to take a very long time." A wave of heat scalded through Buffy at that; one look at his smug face told her he was perfectly aware of it. "But the stamina…" He brushed a silken kiss over her mouth. "Yes, I eagerly await the time when we can see if Elven stamina can keep up with that of the Slayer."

And he tucked her more closely against him, combing through her hair with his fingers. When her regular, even breathing told him she was asleep, he carefully detangled his limbs and stood, then tucked the covers closely around her.

He was, in equal parts, both disturbed and relieved by her outburst. He was displeased that she thought so poorly of him, but glad to finally understand the basis for her moodiness and insistence on keeping her distance from him in recent days, both physically and emotionally.

To a certain extent, yes, he had focused on her pregnancy instead of her, and that had been his mistake. But at no time did he relegate her entirely to only the container of his child. No, she was his wife, and therefore the mate of his heart, mind, and soul.

But Legolas was unprepared for such a bond. He had been unwed a very long time before joining the Fellowship and befriending the Dwarf. Neither had travelling so long with Gimli prepared him for the rigours of being in a relationship, as both he and the Dwarf were of a like mind in most things after over a century of comradeship.

He did not love Buffy; that, he could not lie about. But she was beautiful in appearance, and though prickly as a thorn-bush, strange in speech and manner and so very, heartbreakingly young, she had a fine fëa: that, he had seen even before waking her a week earlier. She was a good woman, a strong and courageous woman, and he was sure it was but a matter of time before he did love her.

Could _she_ love _him_? Certainly, she desired him; her response could not have been manufactured. But she was Mannish, and though he had counted a score of Men among his closest friends he had to admit that longevity of emotion was not their strong suit. Fickle they were, inconsistent and capricious. If their situation improved—if she no longer was dependent upon him for her survival—what guarantee did he have that she would not leave him?

As Edhel, now that Legolas was wed to Buffy, they were wed forever. He had not spoken falsely when he said they were bound for all days. Even after she died, which as a Man she would do long before him, there would be no other for him. So he was quite concerned with making her live as long as possible, especially since the last Drazi had said her health while pregnant was fragile. If she were to die soon, he would be condemned to a life of continued celibacy and solitude.

"So I shall make this time count," Legolas murmured. He had to. It might be the only time he had with her.

* * *

_Two Weeks Later_

"I have returned," Legolas called as he entered their set of rooms on Brown 34.

"Get anything interesting?" Buffy asked, smiling up at him in greeting as she waddled in from the next chamber. She'd spent the day like all the other days, rummaging and sorting through the piles of stuff he'd been bringing back with him. His days were spent scavenging, trading, gaming, and probably doing all sorts of other activities he wasn't sharing with her when he returned home.

"Do you recall that Centauri Tromo Handgun I obtained in exchange for the case of W & G Model 21's?" Legolas inquired, doffing his metal-plated coat and studded gauntlets to reveal the tunic and fitted trousers beneath.

"The one that cost you a dozen Thrakallan phase pistols? Yeah," Buffy replied, taking the coat and gauntlets and putting them away in a closet she'd found behind a wall panel. "Did you manage to get rid of it, finally? I know those Centauri were looking for it… they don't seem to like when their weapons get traded away."

"Especially to a 'pointy-eared Earther'," Legolas said, the pained expression on his face indicating what he thought of being called that. "I managed to locate someone who wanted it even more than the Centauri."

He stepped back into the corridor and dragged in a large crate. "In return for the Tromo, a Hyach trader gave me the entirety of this." He wrestled off the lid and stood back as Buffy came forward to investigate.

"Flarn, baiyou, breen… treel?" She glanced up at him, packages of each of the foodstuffs in her hands, eyes wide. "How did you--?"

Legolas smiled and nodded toward the crate. "Keep looking," he told her mysteriously.

She thrust the packets at him and continued digging. Bottles clanked, and she muttered, "Brivari? Taree?" She grinned crookedly at him. "I'm not exactly able to enjoy alcohol at the moment, you know."

He took the bottles from her and set them on the counter. "Then we shall save them for when you are."

"Oooh, yokdri!" Buffy cooed, carefully lifting out a padded container and setting it aside.

"I cannot believe you enjoy that," Legolas muttered. "I would never—"

"It's all in the preparation," she interrupted with a grin. "You don't know what you're missing."

"I shall never see fried treeworms as a delicacy, no matter how they are prepared," he shot back. "I maintain that it is a mere pregnancy-induced craving of yours, one you should count yourself lucky that I indulge."

"Yeah, I'm the luckiest girl in the world," Buffy said with mock-sourness. "There's—" She stopped abruptly, staring down at the mesh bag she pulled from the bottom of the crate. "Are these… these aren't… are they?" She looked across the room at him in wonder. "You got me orcha?"

Legolas shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable. "You had said you worried for your health, with the lack of fresh fruit and sunlight… I cannot do anything about the latter, but the former I was able to obtain."

Buffy set the bag of orcha fruit down and walked to him. "All this food, especially with the orcha and taree and treel, cost far more than just a Tromo," she said quietly. "What did you trade?"

He refused to meet her gaze, staring out the door into the corridor. "The changeling net."

She sucked in a breath. "But that was supposed to be our ticket out of here!" she said, her tone urgent. The look on his face was scaring her. "What happened?" Her hand on his sleeve rubbed gently, trying to soothe and encourage him at the same time.

"There is no way out of here for us," Legolas whispered raggedly. "We are adrift in the skies, and there is nowhere to go… the stars are endless…"

He was starting to look pretty shell-shocked. "But I… I explained this all to you, days ago, and you seemed fine," Buffy said, leading him to their cot and pushing until he sat. "You know about all the different types of people here, where did you think they came from?"

His eyes were bleak when he tore his gaze from his hands to look at her. "I… do not know. I thought they were merely other races I had not yet met, from parts of Arda I had not yet roamed."

Buffy sat beside him. "What happened?" she repeated. "Please, tell me."

"Belladonna decided it was time for me to know the truth." Belladonna was a prostitute Legolas had befriended the previous week—she was the one who had traded the paintings to him for Buffy. Of the race B'lldn, she looked more like a plant with tentacles than a sentient being, but was reputed to be a courtesan of the highest skill.

That's what she told Legolas, in any case. Buffy wasn't thrilled that he associated with her, but she refused to admit it was jealousy. He insisted that Belladonna was simply an informant who'd taken a liking to him because he would talk to her of the intellectual arts rather than the sensual ones.

"What did she do?"

"She brought me to Brown 100." He paused, swallowing. "There are… windows there."

Buffy sucked in her breath. "And what did you see?"

"Stars." His voice was barely a whisper. "A black void, holding naught but stars as far as even my eye can see. We sit among the stars, as Ilúvatar said would happen after Arda was no more." His shoulders were trembling. "Can it be true? Can my home be gone? Can Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen be gone?

Legolas bowed his head and was silent a long moment. Eventually, he composed himself and murmured, "My father, my mother… Eldarion and his sisters… I still do not know what befell Gimli, either."

"I don't know what happened to my family or friends, either," Buffy replied quietly. "I guess we'll just have to be each other's family now."

He looked up at her in surprise. "Are you ready, then, to accept me as your husband?"

She snorted. "Not nearly. But we can be… cousins. For now. Until we know each other better. And we'll make new friends, eventually. Look, you've already got Belladonna. You'll meet more people, make more friends. If you ever let me out of here, I'll make some, too."

"You are not a prisoner," he said indignantly. "I wish you to stay here for your own safety. The more I explore of Downbelow, with its gambling hells and brothels and narcotic dens, the more convinced I become that we must find a way out."

He sighed, a faint flush on his elegant cheekbones speaking of his embarrassment. "It was foolish of me to trade the changeling net for the food, when I have finally learnt of the world beyond this dank place."

"Yes, it was," Buffy agreed easily. "But it sounds to me like you had yourself a little moment of insanity." She patted his shoulder. "We've all been there. You should have seen what happened when I had mine. Lasted months. Wasn't pretty."

As she spoke, his arm came around her, and now she snuggled more comfortably against him. "Besides, you didn't do anything we can't fix. It'll just take a bit longer, is all."

Legolas glanced down at her ever-burgeoning belly. "I wonder how much more time we have."

"I'm torn," Buffy said slowly, "between wanting it out right now, and wanting it to stay there forever so I don't have to deal with it. I'm no closer to wanting a baby than I was before, Legolas." She looked away from him, studying the wall. "I don't feel like I have anything to do with it, like it's not connected to me at all."

Both fell silent for a long time. Legolas, too harboured fear of having this immense issue thrust upon him, not only a child but a spouse as well. Had he not sought to escape such bounds to his freedom by fighting and travelling so long? Joining the Fellowship and then, when the War of the Ring was over, settling in Ithilien had not entirely been motivated by a burning need to banish evil from his world.

And now all choices had been taken from him.

"It will get better," Buffy said, burrowing more deeply against him, trying to stave off the bleakness, the feeling of futility and powerlessness.

"It _must_ get better." Legolas recalled the endless depth of stars outside that little window. "There is… nothing else for us."

* * *

flarn: Minbari food substance, like tofu.  
yokdri: fried treeworm, eaten as a delicacy.  
baiyou: blue Centauri jello.  
orcha: Markab fruit.  
brivari: Centauri alcoholic drink.  
taree: Narn alcoholic drink.  
treel: Centauri fish, eaten as a delicacy.  
breen: Narn food, similar to Swedish meatballs. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Many thanks to all reviewers, I'm so glad you like this story! I was afraid it would be too weird for most people to enjoy, but I guess I was wrong.

**Pierce the Darkness, chapter 5  
****by CinnamonGrrl**

_Three weeks later_

Legolas kissed Buffy on the forehead prior to leaving for the day, with his sack of smaller items to trade slung over his shoulder. ****She watched him go with much longing, wishing she could go with him instead of having to bum around their little makeshift home all by herself. She concentrated her acute hearing until the final _whoosht_ of the door indicated he was gone.

"And then there was one," she sighed, and set about tidying up their little room.

Legolas really had acquired an impressive number of things in the week since they'd awoken; in her copious spare time, Buffy had begun categorizing it. Weaponry in one room, mysterious gadgets in another, and what she'd dubbed (to Legolas' annoyance) "kinky bondage stuff" in a third. It was, by far, the most full and she wondered what that said about his preferences, though she had managed to keep from commenting on it aloud.

Every once in a while he brought home a real gem, like the long woollen gown and thick socks and soft shoes she now wore. Their cot now boasted what he said were known as "frictionless" sheets and a blanket made of some thin, silvery material that worked better than any goose down comforter. _Maybe he'll manage to get us some pillows today,_ she thought wistfully; she was tired of using folded-up clothes to rest her head on—waking up in the morning with the impression of a dozen metal studs on her cheek and forehead from another of the odd coats he'd found did not a happy Buffy make.

Legolas had been gone an hour— the cot was made neatly and any food left over from Legolas' spending orgy of the previous week was carefully stored on the little shelf over the sink—and already there was nothing left for Buffy to do. She fidgeting for a while, then gave brooding a try, but that was depressing and boring besides. How had Angel managed to stand so much of it?

Forcing her thoughts away from that equally-gloomy topic, she slumped into the chair to reread the book Legolas had found for her a few days ago. It was a testament to her absolute boredom that she would read it even once, let alone this many times. A glimpse at the title page had shown the book had been published in 2102, and the blurb on the back cover said it was one of the last editions that would come out in paper instead of data chip. The pages were yellow and crumbling, and Buffy was afraid to breathe too hard as she turned them for fear they'd melt to dust in her hands.

It wasn't even an _interesting_ book; it was 300 pages nattering on about socio-economic development in the European Union once the United Kingdom had finally, grudgingly converted to the Euro as a form of currency. And yet it was all Buffy had to do all day until Legolas came home. She'd read it once a day since he'd brought it to her five days ago.

She hated this book.

Legolas, on the other hand, she was really starting to like. He was attentive and sweet, funny and cute, and always tried to bring some little treat home to her. She knew that without him, she'd have gone completely bonkers.

And so she read, and read some more. Then she had lunch, and read even more. An hour after lunch, a pain shot through her belly and she winced. _Maybe I shouldn't have eaten that treel, _she thought, heaving herself to her feet and making her way to the commode.

But nothing was forthcoming—she felt no urge to throw up, nor did she have to "use the facilities", and the pain didn't come again. Buffy decided it was a rogue gas pain and left it at that.

But an hour later, she felt the pang again, and this time, it was a bit stronger. It started in the small of her back and continued around toward her navel. Buffy felt fear streak through her as niggling misgiving burst into full-blown suspicion.

Another hour, and another pain. This time it was a definite squeezing sensation, and Buffy was forced to admit that she was, in all likelihood, in labour.

"Crap, crap, crap," she muttered, struggling to her feet. There was a wrench of something within her, a spasming of something deep inside, and then Buffy was aware of the infinitely unpleasant feeling of warm fluid seeping down her thighs. **__**

Hauling up her skirts, she swiped her hand between her legs and sighed heavily when it came back stained red. "Crap," she said again, waddling to the sink to rinse it off. At least there wasn't too much of it, for now. She washed herself as best she could, then put on every pair of panties Legolas had been able to acquire for her, hoping it would help to soak up at least some of it.

What to do? She was alone, in labour, and bleeding. Legolas wasn't expected back for hours. Squaring her shoulders, Buffy went to the weapons room and rummaged until she found a small gun—she'd be damned if she were going out into whatever cold, cruel world awaited her beyond the door of Brown 32 without some sort of protection.

Hiding the gun in the wide sleeve of her outer robe-thingy, she made her way to the door leading to the stairwell and surveyed her choices: one set of steps up, one down—which to choose? Legolas was a creature of habit; she'd observed him going down before, and believed today had been no different.

"Upstairs it is, then," she muttered to herself, and began to climb.

When she opened the door to Brown 33 and stepped in from the stairwell, she was overcome with a reminiscence of the weekend she, Xander, Cordelia, Oz and Willow had spent in Tijuana after high school graduation. It had been "the" place to go to celebrate, and the boys had not minded its seediness with the usual obliviousness of the teen male but she and the other girls had not been impressed with the squalor or dirt.

Sadly, Brown 33 made Tijuana look like a luxury resort complete with spa, pool, and golf course. There was trash lining the hallways, and the smell of rotting food and urine and dead things hidden under the rubbish was strong enough to make her head swim. There was hardly any light at all, and Buffy was glad for her keen eyesight as she picked her way through the detritus on the floor.

Whores were plentiful, and they eyed her with a mixture of distaste and pity which she reciprocated heartily. The pains were gradually becoming stronger and more frequent. When Buffy finally entered a large open bay that seemed to be sectioned off into a brothel, gambling hell, and pub, she dragged herself into the dingy drinking establishment to collapse heavily into a chair.

No one she'd asked had seen Legolas that day, or else they were lying. Judging by how shifty most people here looked, she wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter.

A waitress with fresh stitches in her cheek approached and asked if Buffy wanted a drink. She demurred, pleading a total (and genuine) lack of money, but a male hand reached between the two women with a credit chip held jauntily between fore and middle fingers.

"Whatever the lady wants, on me," he said, and Buffy looked up to find a burly guy, obviously alien judging by his mottled orange-brown skin and formidable tusks, standing beside her rickety table.

"Just a bottle of water," Buffy said slowly, not taking her eyes from him. The waitress shuffled off. "What do you want?" she asked the guy, who seated himself across from her.

He smiled, revealing more outsized teeth. "A woman who doesn't mince words. I like that." When Buffy didn't reply, he forged on. "I notice you're expecting," he said, and she nodded, gritting her teeth as another pain lanced through her abdomen. "The father an Earther, too?"

"Mostly," she replied casually, but her eyes were narrow. "What about it?"

He shrugged, falsely casual. "Oh, nothing. I just know some people who'd pay pretty well for an Earther baby, that's all." He watched her through the haze of smoke in the pub. "Wondered if you might be interested in a transaction. You look in a bad way, like you need some money."

The waitress returned with the bottle of water. Buffy snatched it from her and stood with as much dignity as she could muster. "No," she said shortly, "I'm not interested." She didn't want this baby, but selling it to some shifty-eyed loser with dirty fingernails—oh, and tusks-- was out of the question.

"Pity," he drawled, hand at her elbow to steady her when her balance skewed and she almost tripped over her skirts.

Buffy jerked her arm from his grasp. "Thanks for the water," she said as neutrally as she could, and walked away as fast as possible. The selection of whores grew both younger and prettier the further she travelled from that area, and it was with a mixture of apprehension and relief that she spied someone who looked pretty damn close to Legolas' drawing of Belladonna.

She approached the tentacled being with caution. "Hi," she said slowly. "Are you Belladonna?"

The creature's flat, cobra-like head turned on the long, sinuous stem of its neck to peer at her a long moment before nodding. "And you, I wager, are Legolas' wife," Belladonna replied. Her voice was gorgeous, musical and lilting, and made the hairs on the back of Buffy's neck stand on end with its throbbing vibrancy.

She sighed and gave in to Legolas in the "now we're married" thing, at least for today. "Yes, I'm his wife, and I need to find him. Do you know where he is?"

Belladonna shook her head, a motion of pure grace that made her entire lithe form sway enticingly. "I have not," she replied, a note of regret in that voice. "He mentioned yesterday that he wished to explore the lower levels of Downbelow; to this point, only 32 and higher has he seen."

_It figures, _Buffy thought sourly._ I have a 50/50 chance of choosing the right direction, and made the wrong one. _

A contraction coursed through her then, making her gasp, and Belladonna's face seemed to crease in concern. "You are bleeding," she said, a singsong rhythm to her words that caused Buffy's head to whirl, She wondered if she had lost so much blood by that point that she was in serious trouble. "Remain here."

Belladonna slid away with an undulation of long, graceful tentacles, leaving Buffy standing there in the middle of Downbelow's most infamous area of harlotry. When she didn't return after about ten minutes, Buffy decided that she couldn't wait any longer and chose one of the corridors leading from the large room.

She made her way down it, glad to leave behind the whores but not so happy to see how thin the population grew out here, away from the hustle and bustle of commerce.

"Crap, crap, crap," she chanted, forcing herself to ignore the shaft of fear that lanced through her along with another cramp. Hadn't the head Drazi guy mentioned something about her not dealing well with pregnancy? If she didn't get to a doctor, both she and her hitchhiker could be in danger.

The contraction eased, and on the heels of it came a****gush of wetness. Buffy thought it might be her water breaking until she smelt the metallic tang of blood. "I'm in trouble," she said to herself, uncomfortably aware of the growing puddle soaking her skirts. The fabric clung wetly to her thighs and the smell, thick and heady, was making her nauseous. "I'm in a _lot_ of trouble."

There was no one she could see in this corridor, no one to help her. Buffy slumped against the wall when everything spun around her. Finally, the world righted itself once more and she began to stumble down the corridor, leaning heavily against the wall.

She rounded a corner and lurched through a door; a family huddled there, thin-faced and dirty. Hope leapt within her at the sight of a mother with children; surely they'd help her? "Please," she began, her arms wrapped tightly around her belly. "I need—" A spasm wracked her, and she pitched forward, catching herself by grabbing the sleeve of the woman. "I need a doctor."

"The only doctors are in the Med Labs," the woman replied, pulling away and herding her children into the corner.

"Where are the Med Labs?" Buffy asked. Her mouth was dry and she was starting to get very cold, which was weird because her she sweating like a horse. _Shock_, she thought. _I'm going into shock. This is very bad._

"At the other end of the station," the boy offered, his eyes huge as he watched her tremble.

"How far is it?" _Really, it was like getting blood from a stone,_ Buffy thought, then winced when another little gout of that liquid coursed down her legs. Little blue dots danced in her vision and she thought that, just maybe, her internal comment had been in bad taste.

"Five miles," replied the girl, and Buffy fell back hard against the wall in surprise.

"How do I get there?" she rasped.

"You'll never make it," the woman protested. "We're on Brown 34, you have to get to Brown 1, then take the corridor to the core shuttle, then the shuttle five miles to the Med Labs." She blinked anxiously, her face showing a hint of sympathy for the first time. "You'll never make it."

"So I should just give up?" Buffy demanded. "No. I haven't been through all this just to die here, like this." She tried to straighten a little. "I'll make it. Just tell me which way to go."

"I'll take you," said the girl boldly, pulling out from her mother's embrace.

"Sarena, no!" the woman cried, bony hands reaching out to pull her daughter back.

"No, Mama," Sarena said, coming forward and slipping her arm around Buffy's waist. "She needs help. I'm tired of not doing anything."

Buffy leant gratefully against Sarena. "Thank you," she whispered, blinking against the grey clouds edging their way into her vision.

"Thank me when it's over," Sarena replied briskly. "Until then—" she gave Buffy a little shake "—you need to stay awake, and standing. I'm not strong enough to carry you." Buffy nodded, and they started down the corridor in a slow, crablike motion.

"Sarena!" the girl's mother called. "Sarena, come back!"

* * *

Marcus Cole raced down the central corridor from the Shuttle toward Brown 34. Belladonna had found him in a gambling hell in Brown 46, and had been vague and not very helpful in the manner typical of her people, but she'd managed to disclose the fact there was an Earther woman in dire straits in Downbelow.

And, Belladonna had added, she was the wife of the new chap who'd been making life miserable for Malein and the other scum that preyed on the Lurkers in Downbelow. For Marcus, that was as good a voucher as if Valen§ himself had given the woman his approval.

Still, he couldn't say he was delighted to have been interrupted.

"It never fails," Marcus said under his breath as he dashed down one corridor, then another, apologizing to the Centauri he plowed into in his haste. "The very minute I have a pint on the table before me, and duty calls." Dimly, he wondered when rescuing pregnant and hemorrhaging damsels in distress had become his duty but he supposed it was in the general job description for a Ranger, if one applied the definition generously enough.

He skidded to a stop at the place Belladonna had left the woman to find it deserted but for a grisly smear of blood on the wall. "A gruesome trail of breadcrumbs, indeed," Marcus murmured, and followed it to where the smear became a little puddle on the garbage-strewn floor. A woman and her son shrank back into the corner at his approach.

"The woman who caused this," he said. "What happened to her?"

"I don't know," she quavered, clearly lying, and Marcus heaved a sigh.

"Come now, madam," he began, but the boy interrupted.

"My sister went with her, to help," he said. "I'll take you to them."

"Yudo," the woman moaned, clutching at him.

"I'm tired of doing nothing, too, Mama," he told her fiercely. "I'll come back later."

He led the way down the corridor, speaking to Marcus as they ran. "She was bleeding everywhere. They were headed for the Med Labs."

"The Med Labs?" Marcus repeated, incredulous. "From Brown Sector? If she were bleeding that heavily, there's no way she would make it!"

"That's what we told her," Yudo said, a hint of humour lacing his voice as they stepped into the lift. "But she was determined… got this scary look on her face. I think she'd make it all the way to Ganymede€ if that's where the Med Labs were."

Marcus bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet as they waited for the lift to arrive at the main level, and huffed out a relieved breath when the door finally slid open, bounding from the confined space to the wide corridor…

…then came to a sudden halt at the sight before him.

Two women, one leaning heavily on the other and slightly bent over as she struggled to stand. But with her large belly, her centre of gravity was skewed and she began to pitch forward in spite of the girl's best attempts to stop it.

Marcus dashed forward and swept the pregnant woman into his arms before she could slump to the floor. She blinked wearily up at him and seemed to melt in relief at not having to stand under her own power any longer. "Beard," she muttered, lifting a hand to the neatly barbered hair on his face. Her hand fell limply away when she fainted.

"Yudo," he directed, "find Belladonna, tell her I've found her friend am taking her to MedLab." The boy nodded and returned to the lift. Marcus turned to the girl.

"Help me get her there, will you?" The bloody fabric of her dress had already stained the hand supporting her legs, and he grimaced at the hot, metallic smell of it rising from her as he began to run toward the core shuttle.

The girl ran alongside, and he glanced at her, surprised to see that she was not a teen as he'd thought but a young woman, perhaps as old as twenty— merely short and slight in the way that malnutrition tended to have with a person. Marcus made a mental note to talk Stephen into giving her a vitamin shot once they were in MedLab.

"What's your name?" he asked her as they jogged, flashing her one of his more debonaire smiles.

"Sarena," she replied, blushing a little. Marcus hid a grin; it was almost inconceivable that there was a female left in Downbelow capable of blushing, but there you were. He was charmed a bit in spite of himself, and wondered if there were some sort of job he could find her so she wouldn't have to return to the squalor of her home.

The PA system announced last call for boarding the shuttle squatting at the dock, and with a last burst of speed they stepped into it just before the door slid shut with a hydraulic gasp. Marcus sank onto a bench with a sigh of relief—he wasn't used to the 1,000 metre dash with a hundred pounds of hopefully-not-literally-dead weight in his arms.

Shifting her so she leant against his chest without needing too much support from his aching arms, he turned to Sarena. "When we get to the MedLab stop, you run ahead and tell Dr. Franklin she's coming, tell him to meet us with a stretcher."

She nodded and sprang to her feet with the energetic resilience of youth that Marcus feared he had not enjoyed in many a year. As soon as the shuttle shuddered to a halt, she launched herself down the hallway, following the signs pointing to MedLab.

Marcus followed at a rather more sedate pace. The woman in his arms was mumbling nonsense, about vampires and demons and then she said quite clearly, "I don't want to die again."

_What an **intriguing** thing to say_, Marcus thought. It was as if she had died before, hadn't been impressed, and wished to avoid the same thing again if she could.

"Don't blame you, love," he murmured. "Few of us actually fancy dying. Can't imagine any situation where I'd eagerly embrace the concept, actually." He glanced down at her impassive face, hoping for a response, but there was none. "Everyone's a critic," he groused good-naturedly, shifting his grip on her and heaving an audible sigh of relief when Stephen Franklin barreled round a corner with full med crew in tow. Sarena was at the rear of the group, her thin face anxious.

"You and your strays," Stephen gibed Marcus as the woman was taken from him and placed on a stretcher. "You can't keep this one, you know."

Marcus grinned. "Please, can't I, Dad?" he replied. "I'll be ever so careful, and walk her twice a day and always keep her water dish full." Stephen's laughter rang out in the hallway as he took over the woman's care, barking orders like the medical Napoleon he was as the team retraced its steps toward MedLab.

Which left Marcus alone in the hallway with Sarena. She ducked her head and dared a few hopeful glances at him, which made him unaccountably nervous.

"Er, right," he said, hating the tide of heat that coursed over the unbearded portion of his cheeks. "That's that sorted, then. Right." She opened her mouth to speak but he rushed on. "You can find your way back home, I'm sure. I have things to do. Important things. To do. Right. Right, then. See you." **__**

And he dashed back to the core shuttle like a man pursued by the very devil, ruing his near-total inability to converse with females without making an utter arse of himself. For some reason, they made him feel like a mad idiot. Except for Babylon 5's second-in-command, that Ivanova woman. There was something about her that made him feel… good. Like God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world.

Marcus slumped onto the hard shuttle bench and closed his eyes. He'd always suspected coming to Babylon 5 would be a life-altering experience, and not necessarily in the good way. Alas for his uncanny sense of perception, and tendency to follow where it led.

He should have just stayed on Minbar.

* * *

G'kar hummed as he made his way to the meeting place designated by the smuggler. It wasn't that he was in a particularly good mood, no; just that he had seen Commander Ivanova and Ambassador Delenn forcibly "acquire" Londo Mollari from the glitziest casino on the station to participate in yet another endless, excruciating bout of interstellar politics with the League of Non-Aligned Worlds. The type of thing G'kar was neither permitted nor welcome to attend since his demotion from ambassador of Narn to a mere citizen.

In spite of Londo's waving arms, G'kar had seen that the Centauri ambassador had been in possession of a rather fine hand and doubtless would have won quite nicely. Had those two formidable women not arrived and insisted he accompany them, that is.

"Accursed females," Londo had hissed when Ivanova took one arm and Delenn the other, propelling him from the casino and out into the Zocalo en route to the diplomatic conference room. "Unhand me, you willful, malevolent assassins of joy." **__**

Delenn had looked amused at Londo's slurs upon their characters; Ivanova, bored. G'kar supposed one would have to search far and wide for insults that could burrow under the Commander's steely façade, possibly beyond the very Rim of the galaxy. His smile widened; there was nothing like a strong, confident woman, he always said. Then he thought of Na'toth, and allowed that there was something to be said for amenable, biddable females too.

Ah, here it was. G'kar stomped through Downbelow's never-ending drifts of rubbish to the shadowy corner at which he'd arranged to meet the smuggler; he'd continued to arrange for correspondence to pass back and forth from his people on Babylon 5 and their families back on the Narn homeworld. This data crystal he awaited so eagerly was worth more than a half-dozen Vorlon cruisers to him.

Thus he was displeased when the smuggler named a price to him that was three times as much as had been previously agreed upon.

"This is sheer thievery!" G'kar exclaimed in a whisper. "Do you not realize what this crystal's contents mean to my people here on Babylon 5?"

The smuggler, a typically disreputable-looking Earther, exuded boredom as his pale gaze flicked around the overhang. He didn't like meeting here, it was too vulnerable; the open side had only a metal railing to keep a person from tumbling to the open storage bay below. It was far too easy to be overheard, and there were rumours lately that Security officers weren't the only ones sneaking around Downbelow these days.

"I got expenses," was all he said. "There this new guy running around, keeps stealing things from Malein and handin' it out to the Lurkers, like some kind of goddamned Robin Hood." His snort of amusement faded when he saw no recognition of the joke on G'kar's face. "He was this famous medieval robber, he took from the rich and gave to the poor." Still nothing. The smuggler gave up.

"Anyway, Malein's expenses have gone up because of Robin Hood, and he's passing the savings on to you and everybody else." The thud of a body impacting a hard surface sounded just outside the storage bay they stood above, and the smuggler began to grow uneasy. "Listen, I gotta go. You wanna complete this deal, or not?"

A half-dozen men burst into the bay below them: five grubby Lurkers whom G'kar recognized from his more illicit dealings on the station, and one other fighting them all at once: an Earther, uncommonly (and commendably) attired like a Narn, and fighting (if G'kar were not mistaken) with a Minbari war pike. Also, if G'kar's keen eyes were not mistaken, he was glowing faintly. How _fascinating_.

The smuggler groaned. "Shit, it's him."

G'kar could scarcely tear his eyes from the site of the five experienced brawlers being held off with almost languid ease by the Earther. "Him?"

"Robin Hood." The smuggler began inching his way off the overhang. "You change your mind, you know where to find me." Then he faded into the shadows.

G'kar watched as the Earther ducked beneath the length of pipe swung at him by one of the group, spinning on his heel and catching his opponent in the side of the head with an elbow before vaulting off the ground with the pike and sending both feet smashing into the face of another of his attackers.

"Is it true?" G'kar called down to him.

The Earther glanced up at him, flicking the pike back over his shoulder at the fellow trying to sneak up behind him. **__**

"Is _what_ true?" Robin Hood asked. The pike connected solidly with the man's face and sent him tumbling back, clutching his face and wailing in pain.

"Is it true that you steal from the rich and give to the poor?" G'kar was enrapt by the poetry of his motions, the smooth grace of his fighting, and was aware as well of the fact that he was seeking only to disable, not to kill.

Robin Hood frowned, and shoved the butt of his pike into the belly of another of his attackers. "I have been known to do that," he said at last, quite modestly, and G'kar felt his heart swell with delight. Without a second thought, he launched himself over the railing and off the overhang to the grubby bay floor.

"Magnificent!" he exclaimed as he flung himself into the battle, brawling with abandon. "Long have I waited to find one who would fight for the light, instead of succumbing to the darkness."

Robin Hood's extraordinary blue eyes narrowed at him as he danced away from the swinging fists aimed his way. "I am not so pure as you seem to think, Narn," he grunted, releasing the pike from one hand to punch one man so hard he spun in a circle, then kicking him in the backside so he fell onto his face.

"No?" enquired G'kar, withdrawing his little PPG from his leather greatcoat and aiming it at the prone figure on the floor. "Then you will not mind if I just kill them all. Easier than beating them into their next incarnations, don't you agree?" The other four went still. It was one thing to fight with fists and a pipe; quite another when a phase pistol was involved.

Sighting down the barrel, G'kar was not at all surprised when Robin Hood's hand grasped his wrist and pulled it down.

"No," he said, face serious. "There has been enough killing." There was a sad resignation in his eyes, the sign of a man who has taken far more life than he was comfortable with. G'kar was quite familiar with it, himself.

He turned to the attackers. "Begone," he hissed, every inch the K'aree lord as his red eyes flashed. "Bother this man no more; he is now under my protection, and that of every Narn on this station."

"Malein will hear about this!" one of the men snarled, picking himself off the floor and swiping with the back of his hand at the blood streaming from his nose.

"Malein," scoffed G'kar. "The petty tyrant of a questionable empire. Tell him his reign is soon to be over." He turned and clapped a hand on Robin Hood's shoulder. "And that a new reign is soon to begin."

Robin Hood watched his attackers shuffle off before meeting G'kar's eyes. He seemed, by turns, both apprehensive and amused. "A new reign is to begin, you say?" At the other's nod, he began striding from the storage bay, and continued. "And who shall be ruling it? I trust you have some candidate stashed somewhere?" G'kar opened his mouth to reply, but Robin Hood continued, "It shall not be me."

"But you would be ideal!" G'kar protested, following after him. "If you are truly not out to gouge people, and interested only in making a decent living instead of capitalizing from the misery of others, I can think of no one better."

Robin Hood slanted him another look, this time one of patient humour. "Honoured I am, that you think so highly of me. But I have other, far more important issues to concern myself with at the moment." He continued down the murky corridor at a rapid pace.

"What can be more important than leading people who need you?" G'kar wondered aloud, darting around people to keep up with his quarry, who froze at hearing his words.

"I am no leader of men," he said softly. "That ability and destiny belongs to my friend, and my father. I am but an assassin."

"Come now," G'kar said, just as softly. The people around them seemed to fade into a great distance as they met each other's eyes, and G'kar knew then that he stood with a warrior, and a survivor: those eyes had seen far, far more than his youthful appearance would suggest. "Surely you are more than that?"

Robin Hood grinned suddenly, transforming his slender face from solemn to merry. "I am a husband, and soon to be a father. But more than that—no. Just a wanderer, now, displaced from home and hearth."

"And seeking both?" G'kar peered at him keenly. "With fighting skills such as you possess, you must have a dozen worlds clamouring for you. It would be no great feat to procure a high position, wealth—"

"I wish neither," Robin Hood interrupted, stopping abruptly beside the door to the stairwell. "Leave me now."

G'kar stared a moment more, determined to learn more about this mysterious Earther with, he now noticed, the unusual ears. Then he placed his closed fist over his heart and bowed slowly in the traditional Narn farewell. Robin Hood nodded shortly and disappeared into the stairwell.

G'kar waited a moment before following on silent feet—he, too, could be stealthy when necessary. Robin Hood was not to be seen, but he heard the distinctive whoosh of a door opening and dashed up the stairs just in time to see it close again. Brown 32, the door read—the level appropriated by those strange Drazi and protected so fiercely that all had ceased bothering to infiltrate it.

He waited yet another moment before opening the door, and stepping quietly in. This level, unlike all others in Downbelow, was almost sterile in appearance—perfectly clean and brightly lit. The corridor stretched before him in a long path of grey, broken only by a trail of something dark on the floor.

It was quite clear to anyone with eyes in his head that the trail of red droplets marring the otherwise spotless floor was Earther blood, and he wondered if he had somehow missed the fact that Robin Hood had been injured in his fight with Malein's hoodlums. Hurrying down the corridor, careful not to step in the blood, he slammed into Robin Hood when he flew from one of the rooms lining the hallway.

"You followed me," Robin Hood accused, dark brows snapped together in a fearsome scowl.

"Robin Hood," G'kar exclaimed, "you are hurt."

"I am not," Robin replied, already running back toward the stairwell. "The blood is not mine."

G'kar jogged alongside, waiting, but no more was forthcoming. "Are we… going to find this person who is injured?" he asked at last.

Robin Hood's jaw flexed, as if he were clenching his teeth. "_I_ am," he replied tightly, increasing his speed as he wove through the throngs of people. "_You_ are buggering off."

G'kar huffed and kept pace. "I am not." He watched as Robin Hood began questioning people, asking if they had seen a petite, heavily pregnant female. _Ah, _he thought, _my new friend seeks his wife._ _Was it her blood I saw?_

No one had seen her; G'kar felt it quite possible that even if they had, they would not tell this increasingly wild-eyed man, not with his reputation for thwarting Malein. The criminal's eyes and ears were everywhere in Downbelow; aiding and abetting the enemy would only bring misery.

He took Robin Hood's arm and pulled him into a shadow, the better to speak in private. Robin Hood snarled at him and clawed at his fingers, trying to free himself. G'kar's predator's nose detecting the scent of fear emanating from the man.

"Let me try," he said, trying to calm Robin Hood with his tone. "You have made more enemies here than have I."

Eyes wide, Robin Hood stared a long moment at G'kar before nodding his agreement. "My name is not Robin Hood," he said irrelevantly, and allowed himself to be led down the corridor.

"No? My acquaintance had told me it was," G'kar replied smoothly. He was now in his element, that of organizer of hidden alliances, purveyor of shady deals and holder of secret information. If this man's wife were anywhere on the station, he would find her. "I am G'kar. And might I say, you are to be commended for your excellent taste in wardrobe."

"Legolas," the other identified himself as they arrived at the lift and darted inside. G'kar indicated they wished to be taken to the main corridor level. "And my attire is not a matter of taste, but of necessity; this Narn clothing was all that would fit my height."

"It suits you well," G'kar replied, aware his voice had taken on that smoothness of tone it tended to do when he was trying to ingratiate himself. The lift came to a halt, and they bolted from it toward the platform where the shuttle docked. Now that they were in a more brightly-lit part of Babylon 5, it was easier to see their surroundings, and a reddish smear on the floor indicated that someone had bled upon it. G'kar stooped and dabbed up a bit on his gloved finger, sniffing it.

"Human," he said, offering his stained finger to Legolas. "Do you know the taste of your wife's blood? Can you tell if it is indeed her?"

Legolas blinked, recoiling a bit. "No, I do not. But I have a feeling it is her." He closed his eyes a moment. "It is quite a lot of blood that has spilt, and she is so small. She is strong, but I hate to think of her in pain, bleeding, and I am not with her."

G'kar placed his hand on Legolas' shoulder, trying to reassure him as the lift door opened. "You said she is strong, did you not?" At Legolas' nod, he smiled. "Then she will endure."

They stepped inside the shuttle, and Legolas jolted on his feet as it jerked into motion. G'kar tugged him down to sit on the bench; had he never been on the shuttle before?

"She will endure," Legolas said, then repeated again, as if to reassure himself. "She will."

* * *

§ Valen: Sacred person from Minbari theology, a Christlike figure of deliverance. Actually former Babylon 5 Commander Jeffrey Sinclair, sent 1,000 into the past from the year 2060. 

€ One of the moons of Jupiter. Quite far from B5, incidentally.


End file.
